


A Promise Made

by BeyondStarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondStarlight/pseuds/BeyondStarlight
Summary: For his Lord, Severus would kill. It was only natural then, that he couldn’t do any less for Dumbledore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was not beta-read. If you notice anything weird or any typos, please let me know.

When, three nights after Lily’s death, Severus finds himself standing quietly in Dumbledore’s office, he can’t tell which one of them is more surprised.

“Severus?”

He likes being called Severus, though he’ll never admit it. There are few people who are on first name basis with him – few people who want to be. It’s different with Dumbledore, of course. It always is. Dumbledore calls the Dark Lord by his first name; it’s hardly more than a show of power.

“Why are you still here?”

There was neither fear nor anger in Dumbledore’s voice. Neither relief nor curiosity. Severus replayed the words in his mind, but he could not tell what lied beneath them. A genuine question, perhaps. Why is he still here, in Hogwarts, in Dumbledore’s office? Why is he still here, breathing and being alive, as if he has the right to it?

“I made a promise.” He says. His mouth is dry, voice on the edge of a croak.

Dumbledore stares at him, openly and calmly. “I know,” he says, with a small nod. “But I have not been able to keep up my end of the promise.”

For the first time, Severus sees him as the Dark Lord does. When he was younger – maybe a year ago – he had not understood. What could possibly be frightening, or awe-inspiring, about this man? He was, at best, a gentle man. A man who smiled sweetly, and spoke honestly, and showed himself as he was. A _bare_ man. Severus had always strongly believed that only a fool would show the truth about themselves – but then again, maybe that said more about himself than it did about Dumbledore.

Now, it is the bareness that frightened him. How could one survive war, loss, humiliation, and suffering, and still be open and gentle and bare?

Dumbledore stands there, watching, waiting. He does not have his wand in his hands; instead they rest next to him as he leans against his desk. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, and deep lines showing the sleepless nights. Streaks of grey run through his hair, which Severus could not remember being there before.

His mouth is dry and his throat clicks when he swallows. He finds that his desire to serve Dumbledore comes more readily now that he understand his true power. This willingness, or perhaps it is a need, to throw himself at Dumbledore’s feet, is followed closely by an even stronger fear of rejection.

“Then I want to make a new promise.”

At this, Dumbledore arches his eyebrows. It is a feeling of its own – the feeling when your life depends entirely on someone else’s decision. It’s a familiar sensation, by now.

“What about Lily?”

Severus is used to reading between the lines. The Dark Lord speaks in riddles, in half-truths and half-promises and half-threats. Dumbledore’s honesty is a slap in the face. With nothing but a word, the image of her is ruthlessly jerked from the depths of his mind. No legillimency, no tactics, no games. Severus turns his head away, clasps his own arm, and runs his thumb up and down the Mark through his sleeve. He blinks a few times, trying to dispel the image of her.

“She is dead,” he replies thinly, forcing himself to unclench his sweaty hands.

In the back of his mind, he realises that, not long ago, he would have cried. Would have thrown himself at Dumbledore’s feet, not unlike the first time they had made a promise. He used to cry a lot; just like his mother. Had earned himself the nickname Snivelling Snivellus and lived up to it. Crying had been, to him, an embarrassing display of emotion. Pathetic. Weak. Annoying.

Now, he doesn’t shed a single tear, and that disturbs him far more deeply than any crying ever did. He wishes the blood on his hands would stir any fear, disgust or loathing within him, but it doesn’t. He wishes the memory of Lily would throw him on his knees, weeping for forgiveness, that it would suffocate him in equal measures of shame and self-loathing. But it doesn’t. How typical for him to realise the value of something and then lose it in the same breath.

Dumbledore looks at him, without hiding his doubts. How bare, Severus thinks again, and he feels as though the mere gaze of Dumbledore strips him down to his bones as well.

“If I remember correctly, you said you would do anything _for_ _her_.”

“I would have died for her,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Oh, how he wishes he had died. He doesn’t think he will ever stop wishing for it. God knows he would give his life any moment, if it would mean anything. But it doesn’t.

Reluctantly, he looks up, into Dumbledore’s eyes. He hates looking into their eyes. Dumbledore’s. The Dark Lord’s. He learnt the hard way that the eyes are the window to the soul, and he is terrified of letting anyone see the hollowness behind his eyes. Caught up in hiding his own miserable self, he forgets, sometimes, that other people’s soul can be glimpsed in their eyes too.

Dumbledore’s eyes are cold and hard, and that takes him aback. There is no pity in them, no compassion or understanding. Not that he thinks he deserves them, but he realises that he had expected to receive them anyway. Severus’ eyes flicker away hesitantly, before he can force himself to look back into the clear blue of his eyes. Still nothing. Severus’ guts twist.

Only later he will realise that it is exactly that lack of emotions that pushed him over the edge. That, had Dumbledore shown any hint of understanding, Severus’ instincts would have kicked up, and he would have weaved together half-truths smoothly and beautifully and without skipping a beat.

“I know you would have died for her,” he says, quietly, tiredly. “For her. Not for me. Or am I wrong?”

“I,” Severus begins, stopping himself before anything wrong can come out. His hands are trembling, and he clenches them into tight fists.

“I don’t know what you are doing here, Severus,” Dumbledore continues, turning his head to gaze through the window. “You came to me for her, but now she is gone. What do you want to stay for?”

Something snaps inside of him, and equal measures of anger and magic burn tightly in his chest. He has Dumbledore’s cloak in his hands before he knows what he is doing.

“She is dead,” he snaps, and the words ring in his head, making him dizzy. “I would have died for her, you know I would, I would have- would have- anything! But I can’t _live_ for her. I can’t live for someone who’s- she’s dead. She’s dead. Because of me. That’s not- I can’t- I can’t.”

Dumbledore does not shake him off. He does not grab for his wand. He does not hold Severus. Does not shush him the way he once did. He only looks at Severus, very tiredly so. Almost as if he knew this was coming.

He sighs, and Severus suddenly feels light-headed. He has never stood this close to Dumbledore, never held his smooth robes in his hands, never seen the coolness of his eyes so clearly.

“I can’t give you what you want, Severus.”

Severus’ hands are trembling worse than ever when he pries them off of Dumbledore’s robes. His knees are weak but he refuses to kneel. “You can,” he breathes. “I can still give you anything, anything you ask of me. I can still spy for you. Anything. Anything. All I want- all I want is to avenge her.”

For the first time that night, Dumbledore looks sad. He closes his eyes for a moment, and Severus realises that it’s all in vain. Dumbledore has decided all along that he would no longer need Severus, had tried to play along with Severus’ little theatre, but alas, now it was time to tell the truth.

“You may stay.”

Severus repeats the words over and over again in his head. He’s not sure he understands them well. His voice is barely audible when he speaks. “Stay?”

Dumbledore then carefully reaches for Severus’ face, gently holding his cheek, their eyes meeting once more. Severus waits for the invasive feeling of magic slipping into his mind, but there is nothing, only Dumbledore’s soft, deep voice. “You will promise me this,” he says, “That, to the same extent as you would have died for Lily, you will live for me.”

The words resonate in his head, but he has the distinct feeling that he is yet to understand their true meaning. He waits, and waits, but Dumbledore does not fetch any ink, or chalk, or even his wand.

“Your word, Severus?”

Maybe it is the tiredness. Maybe it is the events of the past few days – the losses and the victories. Maybe Dumbledore is a fool for being bare after all.

“My word?”

He can’t help but ask, and he can never quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. What is the worth of a liar’s word? He was a spy, perhaps still is. Lying is his second nature, and Dumbledore knows this damn well.

“If I cannot trust you, without binding you to me, and forcing you to obey me, then I want you to leave.”

Leave. The word is said louder and sharper than he expected. The silence after is tense and heavy, and Severus feels bare once more. He hates it; hates being seen for what he is. A disgusting liar. But he is desperate, he really is, and maybe Dumbledore can see that too.

“You have my word.”

It sounds bad. The words don’t fit in a mouth like his. He couldn’t make them sound honest if he wanted to, not unless he was made to kneel and kiss ass and feign sincerity for his life.

Dumbledore says nothing, but nods solemnly, leaving Severus’s question – whether the man was a true fool or a true master – unanswered.

Without another word, Severus retreats to his chambers. A small thought crosses his mind – that he would like to change Slughorn’s furniture – but it sounds so dream-like to him that he shakes it off and just climbs underneath his blankets. Despite the tiredness, he sleeps poorly that night, contemplating the worth of a promise if it is nothing more than a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

He had made his fair share of promises to the Dark Lord. For his Lord, Severus would kill. It was only natural then, that he couldn’t do any less for Dumbledore.

Teaching, however, teaching was a whole new level of dedication. In the past, Severus had been consoling himself that it was only for a year, but now it was thawing upon him that he was going to be here for many more years. Though there were still a handful of days left before the beginning of the schoolyear, he spent his nights restlessly, pondering his new position. A permanent position. Teacher. Potions Master. Head of Slytherin.

Merlin help him.

He had spent most of the first day stocking up the storeroom, nagging Mr Filch into repairing the leaking classroom sinks, and hunting down various potion brewing manuals at entrance level. Despite his best efforts to tire himself into sleep, he still found himself pacing through his chambers at two in the morning. The distractions and accomplishments of the day made him feel physically exhausted, but mentally wired.

At last, he stood still in the middle of his sitting room. It was all officially his now. His for the next god-knows-how-many-years. He spread his arms, as he had done the first time he was alone in them, and allowed himself a moment of child-like marvel at the sheer size of his chambers. To an outsider, he must have looked like a lunatic (and, maybe, that wasn’t all that far from the truth).

The ceiling was high, and he stared up at the blackness that was the bottom of the lake. He had a soft spot for the dungeons. He was probably the only one. They were bone-chilling during the winter, there were always draughts, and the only light sources were the torches, which cast long, shifting shadows. It was no coincidence that, with the exception of himself, no one spent much time lingering in the dungeons. Even the Slytherins fled to the warmth and comfort of their dormitories.

The mirror, blissfully silent at this ungodly hour of the night, stared back tiredly at him. It was in these moments, when the world was silent and asleep, and his mind too agitated to recognise his self-imposed boundaries, that truth welled up in him, almost naturally.

And the truth was that he was terrified.

Even now, at the unimpressive age of twenty-two, he was scarcely more a man than he had been at sixteen. He was short, which wouldn’t be a problem if the older students didn’t tower over him. His knees were knobbly, and his bones stuck out, making him look no more appealing than a scarecrow. Even his relatively broad chest and shoulders were undone by his habitual slumping. He straightened his shoulders, tilted his head up, and puffed his chest. With a deep sigh, his shoulders slumped again, and the sad little man in the mirror shook his head slowly. This wasn’t going to do.

There was a distant noise that he didn’t recognise immediately. Someone was knocking on his door. He flung his nightgown over himself and hesitantly tiptoed to the door. What lunatic would visit him at this hour?

 _Stupid question_ , he thought, while letting Dumbledore in. He rubbed his eyes and fumbled with his sleeves. His mind was racing through scenarios too fast for him to keep track, but he felt the panicked rush of it in the pit of his stomach either way.

“My apologies if I woke you up,” Dumbledore said, far too calm and composed for the hour.

Severus shrugged. He was fairly sure that Dumbledore wouldn’t have come knocking at his door if he didn’t know Severus would still be up. He stepped back, wondering whether he should ask Dumbledore for tea or offer a seat or just get to the point. He was spared from having to make the decision.

“Can we sit down for a moment, Severus?”

Dumbledore didn’t look at him whilst he said this. There was a faint frown on his face, and when he sat down, he ran his fingertip over his lip a few times, staring pensively at the coffee table. Severus quietly seated himself across from him. It was then that he noticed Dumbledore was wearing his nightgown as well – just as colourful as his daytime attire, only a tad less elaborate in terms of layers. Severus glanced down at his own gown, which had once been white, but was now stained and grey. And thin, very thin. Short enough to bare his knees. He fiddled with his frayed sleeves, praying that Dumbledore would be too distracted with his own thoughts to take notice.

“Do you still want to serve as a spy?”

Severus blinked, dispelling his silly nightgown-related thoughts. He folded his hands between his knees and shrugged, not meeting Dumbledore’s eye. “It’s not a matter of whether or not I want to,” he answered coolly. “I already told you I would do anything.”

A small smile tugged at Dumbledore’s lips, but the humour of it was lost on Severus. “I know what you promised me, Severus, but there is a difference between duty and devotion.”

Severus stared at the coffee table for a moment. Since when did Dumbledore speak in riddles? Maybe he was just tired. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, and sighed. “I’ll spy.”

“Look at me, Severus.”

In the wee hours of the morning, Dumbledore’s eyes were clearer and sharper than they had any right to be.

“We didn’t have time in the past. Now we do. When _he_ returns, and he will, you must be prepared.”

At the first tingling of intrusive magic, Severus blinked and shook his head. _Too tired_ , he wanted to say reflexively, but habit kept him quiet. Albus sat down next to him, and gently cupped his face.

“Look at me.”

\--

His very first class came far sooner than he had expected, even though he’d been counting the days. He would start out with the first-years, which were usually subdued, if merely because they were overwhelmed with the novelty of everything. Their attention span never made it past the five-minute mark, however. Nonetheless, he continued, standing stiffly behind his desk, which was his little safe haven.

He started with an explanation on what they would be doing the first few weeks – introduction to potions, safety precautions, how to handle ingredients, methods of cutting, chopping, crushing, etcetera, and why all of that mattered. It was about then that the students realised they weren’t going to brew anything deadlier than an anti-burn salve in their first few years. To be fair, anti-burn salves were actually quite capable of being harmful, when consumed in copious amounts, but they smelled of spoiled milk, so no one ever felt compelled to use more than the required amount. At this point, however, Severus was mumbling all of this to himself. He stared at his hands for a moment, which were clenched tightly around the edge of his desk, and wondered who questioned his position of authority more – them or he.

After an hour, the children strolled out of his classroom, without waiting for him to give them permission to do so. Not that he was stopping them – he had been keeping an eye on the clock as keenly as them. A handful of students lingered behind. They had questions, apparently. No, they needn’t provide their own ingredients. No, they may not brew outside of the classroom, neither can they take their completed potions back with them. Take it to the Headmaster if you disagree. And yes, they were required to bring their cauldron, textbook, and other materials to each class. He had only answered these questions about four times already during the class, but he wasn’t counting.

Once they had gone, Severus was left in the suddenly overwhelming silence of the classroom. It was like the quiet after the passing of a storm; deafening. His head was throbbing and his mouth dry from explaining things to the walls. The chairs were left unorderly, some desks had been moved, someone had already managed to forget their textbook, and he could spot fresh chewing gum from where he was standing. It was a cold reminder that no spacy dungeons or leather-bound books could make up for another 10 months of this. He sat in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and waited for the moment to pass. The trouble was that “the moment” was rapidly becoming his permanent state.

Over noon, he forced a few spoons of soup into his mouth. The afternoon was filled with a class that passed even slower than the morning one. Then, finally, dinner arrived. At that point, his head was pounding, and the pressure behind his eyes had grown so strong that his vision blurred or distorted at times. His tea was lukewarm and the smell of pudding made his stomach lurch.

At last, he crept back to his rooms, collapsing into his bed, and happily passing out halfway through kicking his boots off and tugging the blanket around him.

He was startled out of his blissful sleep by a low humming noise. A voice. He blinked, panicked, and jumped up. His headache roared up, and he clutched his head, cursing quietly. A cool hand cupped his cheek in a familiar way, and he raised his head to look at Dumbledore. The lights were out. Only a small fire was burning, which tinted the walls with an ember glow, and turned the Headmaster to no more than a black silhouette. The plea for mercy was on Severus’ lips – _no, no, please, not today, just one night off, please, let me rest_ – when a thumb ran over his lip, and drew his mouth open. A spoonful of syrupy medicine ran over his tongue, and burned in his throat as he swallowed it.

His cheek was released, and instead the hand rested on his forehead for a moment, which was pleasantly cool. Severus closed his eyes. The numbing of the pressure behind his eyes was so relieving that he released a shaky breath, and leant in against Dumbledore’s touch. His body relaxed, and his thoughts began to drift away. The last thing he felt was a hand running reassuringly through his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

A week passed. It hurt. Physically, mentally, emotionally, and probably even spiritually. By Friday evening, he felt as worn as Filch’s rags. No matter what he tried, his classes remained chaotic. He raised his voice and they raised theirs. He deduced house points, only to find the prefects adding them back up. He slammed his hand on his desk, and they laughed. They _laughed_ at him. And the seventh years, Merlin protect him from those. They were not children, but men and women, who were two heads taller than him and twice as broad, looming over him smugly.

The problem was that students were a species of their own. Severus knew how to handle most people. He could handle politicians, Aurors, even murderers. But children? _Teenagers_? His stomach tightened. Adults wanted something, whether it was from him or not. These little shits? They didn’t care. They were there because they had to be. And, to add insult to injury, they didn’t give a single damn about potions. It was a personal affront, and there was nothing he could do about it.

It didn’t help that the other teachers knew. They didn’t say anything – not when they knew he could hear them – but they knew damn well how catastrophic his classes were. He couldn’t see them as his colleagues. They were teachers. And they couldn’t see him as one of them. Most of the time, he went by Mr Severus – caught between Mr Snape and Severus.

He was neither student nor teacher. An intruder. Sometimes he caught himself holding his breath, certain that someone would notice that he didn’t belong. He sat on the edge of his chair through the teacher’s meeting, closely following the clock from the corner of his eye. Left from him, Septima Vector sat, arguing with every statement McGonagall made for the mere sake of arguing. Severus would never admit it, but he was terrified she would notice him. She was a Ravenclaw to the core – loved discussing and questioning everything – it would take her no time to come to the unarguable conclusion that Severus Snape did not belong among them.

Throughout every meeting, Severus kept his mouth tightly shut. There was no doubt that anything he would say would only put him under a magnifying glass; what did an unexperienced boy like him know about teaching, after all? So he waited impatiently until the end of the meeting, until he could escape.

“Severus,” a familiar voice startled him just as he was about to leave. He almost considered walking on as though he hadn’t heard it, if only he could get away with that. With ill-feigned patience, he turned around, facing a good-humoured Dumbledore. “Come here, I wanted to ask you about something.”

They waited patiently until everyone had left, but Severus could feel the burn of every glance thrown his way. He licked his lips, wondering whether his abominable teaching would cost him his head sooner than the spying would. “Headmaster?”

“Call me Albus,” he said nonchalantly, gesturing for Severus to follow him. They entered Dumbledore’s private chambers, where Severus had never been before. The ceilings were high, with windows everywhere, and long, deep red curtains draped along them. It was far messier than Severus had expected – the desks were overflowing with scrolls and stationery, heaps of books were huddled together left and right, and other peculiar objects were scattered all over the place.

They both sat down on a broad couch; the armchair and coffee table were occupied by a handful of tomes, a few letters, and two dozing cats. Severus was fairly sure one of them had been padding through his classroom that morning.

There was no time for tea. Albus cupped his cheek. There was something hard and cold about his face. Severus suppressed a shiver. Cold magic brushed over his face, like long, icy fingers running over his skin, like thumbs, pressing into his eyes, sinking into his head.

Snow. Christmas. The Great Hall stretched out emptily in front of him. Everything is hulled in a white veil of mist and blankness.

 _No_.

Darkness. Footsteps. The familiar shimmering torches of the dungeons. Lucius, young, and smiling, not quite as forced as he would grow to. The whiff of his cologne. Severus’ palms had been sweating – but Albus couldn’t tell that. They were hurrying through the hidden passageways in the dungeons. The haunting creak of the small door, at the back of the castle. The Forbidden Forest, reviving from underneath the last snows.

 _No_.

Tiptoeing along the same passageways. A whisper behind him. Lily. His hand firmly pressed to his pocket. The cigarettes he remembered feeling there. A spell to shush the creaking door. The morning mists hiding their spidery figures. Dew clinging to their robes. Her laughter ringing through the eerily quiet forest. The green of spring.

 _No_.

The green of her eyes. Her hand, cupping his cheek. Apologies. She’d been apologising. But her face was heavy with pity. The shame he’d felt. But Albus couldn’t feel it. The cutting words. Her hand, slapping him in the face. It was her or him and he’d always choose himself. Fool.

_No. No. No._

Her grave.

“Stop,” he rasped. A flash of black. His hands were grasping Albus’ robes tightly, shaking as he uncurled them. The room fell back into place, colours too bright and shapes contorted. “Don’t go there.”

There was a coldness about Albus. Something that reminded of the Dark Lord.

“Then don’t let me.”

Severus gritted his teeth, breathing thinly. “You know that it’s, that she, we used to,” he inhaled shakily. “You know what she means to me.”

“Is that what you will tell Voldemort?”

“I won’t,” he sputtered, and turned his head away. He crossed his arms defiantly, digging his nails into his elbows.

There was a moment of silence, and then a sigh. A very tired sigh.

“What have I told you?”

Severus reluctantly unfolded his arms, and repeated the familiar words tersely. “To empty myself of emotions.”

 “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Severus, a foolishly dangerous thing for a spy.”

“I know-”

“Control your emotions,” Albus cut him off, his voice low and stern. “You wallow in sad memories. You allow yourself to be provoked so easily. If you can’t change this then you will have no chance against his powers.”

\--

That night, Severus lied curled up in his bed, staring blindly at the darkness around him, waiting. Albus did not come.

\--

“Tea?”

“No thank you.”

Severus sat with his legs crossed in the armchair. One of the cats came to rub its head against his ankles, but he ignored it. The clutter in Albus’ office proved to be a nice distraction.

“How are you, Severus?”

Two cups of tea were placed on the coffee table. A peace offering. Severus huffed, and tapped his finger on the armrest, feigning boredom. “Why did you call me in?”

“To talk.”

“Then talk.”

There was a moment of silence, in which Severus almost expected a slap across the face. A snappish word about respect. Or at least a threat, veiled in feigned politeness.

He did not expect the weary sigh. The slump with which Albus seated himself in the couch. The peculiar look in his eyes that Severus couldn’t place.

“You must hide your memories of Lily.”

Severus clenched his jaw. “I will.”

“If Voldemort sees these memories he will never trust you.”

“I know.”

“Bury her, Severus. Let her go.”

“Is that all?”

Albus’ eyes were, for once, almost gentle. He looked old, suddenly. Much older than he was.

“Yes, Severus, that will be all.”

\--

A week passed, in which Severus waited. At night, he tossed in his bed until he had to get out. Hours were wasted on pacing back and forth through his rooms, until they grew too small. Sometimes he jumped up, thinking he’d heard a knock at the door, but it was only the clock, reminding him grimly that time was ticking on steadily.

There were no more invites to the Headmaster’s private quarters. The next meeting with teachers lasted an eternity. Barely a word made sense to Severus, but he couldn’t imagine caring about it either way. Every now and then, his eyes darted to Albus, but the latter did not take any notice of him.

When the teachers filed out of the room, Severus lingered behind. He blamed tiredness and not wanting to be stuck in the sociable centre of the group. It was merely an accident that he was left almost last, with the Headmaster. He was not called.

Classes passed – one tragedy after another – and he discovered that maybe being an insomniac did help with teaching. There was a breaking point, and he reached it much more easily when sleep deprived and mentally wired. Shouts and insults were impossibly effective to shut up an entire class. The aftermath was less pleasant.

“I heard you had a little outburst during your class.”

Severus glanced up from the abominable essay he was correcting. Albus was standing in the doorway. With a shrug, he resumed his commentary.

“I put them in their place.”

“You made a boy cry.”

“Crying is the most useful thing Mr Chesterfield has ever done in any of my classes.”

“Which you told him.”

Which he had shouted across the entire classroom, along with some far worse statements.

Severus put down his pen and straightened himself. “Are you reprimanding me?”

There it was again, the odd expression on Dumbledore’s face. As if he wasn’t angry at all, even if he ought to be. As if he couldn’t be.

After a moment of hesitation, Albus stepped inside the office, and closed the door behind him. It was the first time they had talked inside Severus’ office. There was a reason for that. Even Slughorn had barely ever used the office. The walls were bare stones, like the inside of a cave, and the floor cold and dirty. The chairs were plain and wooden, just as the desk. Personally, Severus adored it. He could not have wished for a better place – it took only two students for the lot of them to understand that they were highly unwelcome here. He even left the fireplace as unused and blackened as it had come. Instead, there were pale, white lights hovered over them, dulling colours and deepening shadows.

Albus sat down in the chair across from him. It felt wrong, as if their positions were skewed. Severus was not supposed to be the one behind the desk.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Severus huffed. What an absurd question. “Just get to the point,” he muttered, knowing he was rude but knowing he couldn’t help it.

Albus stared at him, unblinkingly. “I don’t mean this question lightly. This isn’t small talk. How are you feeling?”

Severus shrugged stiffly. What did it matter? He pretended to read over the essay to avoid looking up. “I have been better.”

It was as honest an answer as he could give.

“Would you mind if we talked in your private chambers?”

Since when did he ask? Severus shrugged, but stood up. No one liked his office. Good.

“Tea?”

“I don’t have any. I will go to Hogsmaede tomorrow to fetch some.”

They sat down on the couch. It felt almost nice. Things were going back to normal. Maybe he could start expecting the midnight visits again. Maybe he wouldn’t have to fill up all this empty space with his own nightmares again.

Albus’ hand felt familiar on his cheek, and he turned to look the man in his eyes. They sat like this, for several seconds. Severus waited for the cold brush that pushed through his skull and sunk into his head, but all he felt was Albus’ thumb stroking his cheek.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Albus sighed softly, and Severus stiffened. It wasn’t as if he had any right to pry, but he was fairly certain this matter, and there was definitely some matter, directly involved himself. Maybe he was acting foolish, or at least impatient, but he turned away, staring stubbornly at the portrait of some old hag, that hung solemnly in his sitting room. Said old hag was giving them a disapproving look, and shaking her head slowly. They drove Severus mad, the paintings, always thinking their opinion mattered. As if they had any idea of what was going on. He would chuck her out some day.

“I feel like I ought to apologise.”

Severus froze, and then slowly turned back to look at the Headmaster. Apologise for what? Was this plan not working out the way he had intended it to? Did Albus change his mind on needing him? Had his Occlumency been so abominable that Albus had given up on him? He twisted his hands, and straightened himself somewhat.

“What for?”

Albus smiled. Severus felt as though he was see-through. Perhaps it was true; he really had to be no good at Occlumency and lying. And what’s a spy that can’t properly lie? Useless, dangerous, and probably dead. It was a pity; if anything, he’d always thought himself a born liar, but apparently not.

“You’ve been making a lot of progress.”

Severus blinked, but kept his face carefully still. Progress? Had he really? Certainly, they had been practicing every single night, up until a short while ago. And Severus was a keen learner. A gifted student. His thoughts made a 180, and he did not stop them.

“That’s called congratulating, not apologising.”

Severus had doubted momentarily whether cheekiness was called for, but saw it as a good sign when Albus’ smile broadened just a little bit.

“Yes, you are right, congratulations are in place. You’ve been picking up the skill of Occlumency with remarkable speed.”

There was something about plain compliments that made him uneasy. He didn’t need flattery – he barely got it to begin with. Flattery was just a cover up for something else.

“You’ve been doing so well that I’m afraid you won’t remember how to be yourself again.”

 _Wouldn’t that be nice_ , Severus thought quietly, although he only quirked an eyebrow. He had learnt that, sometimes, it was better to remain silent. Albus filled the gap.

“I hope you are not mad with me for-”

“I am not,” he said, quickly but clearly. He had no intent to bring the whole ordeal up. “There are more important matters at hand.”

Albus watched him intensely for a moment. Severus stared back.

“Was there something else?”

“No, Severus.”

A lie, as plain as they came, but Severus said nothing. He watched the Headmaster intently as the he stood, slowly, and left, lingering only a second in the doorway. Whatever the Headmaster was keeping from him, it seemed intent on being told, sooner or later.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Severus found himself browsing tea in one of Hogsmaede’s little shops. He’d never been particularly fond of the town, because it was always swarming with students when he was allowed to go. Now that it was quiet, almost eerily so, he liked it much better.

The Headmaster was the only one who drank tea with him. He knew Albus preferred fruity and flowery teas. Then again, Albus could stock his own teas, and Severus could stick to his weak earl grey with heaps of sugar. His hand hovered over the lavender tea. He liked the aroma of it good enough, so he supposed it was a fair in-between. Not that he had to.

The old lady behind the counter was watching him. Her eyes burned into his back as he hovered undecidedly between the pricy lavender tea and cheap Earl Grey. He was the only one in her store, although it was evening, and townspeople were strolling through the streets.

Finally, he picked lavender, and delicately placed it onto the counter. There was no small talk about herbs and aromas and recommended teas, which he had overheard every now and then when Lily dragged him into the store. The otherwise babbling lady was staring him down, taking his money without a word. She didn’t have to say anything. It was obviously what she was thinking.

_Death-Eater._

She had bright orange hair, short and curly, and bright orange rimmed glasses and bright orange gloves and bright orange buttons on her white shirt. She handed him a little card. _Tea-tastic Sale_ , it read, in bright orange letters, with teacups floating around it. The back of the card read a date and time. He glanced back up to the woman, who was staring at him with an odd, but no less intense expression. He politely put the card in his bag and left.

There were less people on the streets now. Severus could not shake off the feeling that it was because of him. Someone had seen him. Had spread the word. The Death-Eater had come down to their little place. Albus may have cleared his names on the papers, but there was no clearing the blood out of people’s minds.

A small group of men and women were watching him. They stood just underneath a lantern, which casted long shadows over them. Their brows hid their eyes, which he knew were following him.

He stumbled. Clumsiness, he thought at first. Always happened when people were watching. But he’d grown out of it, hadn’t he? Had learnt to walk with grace even under the Dark Lord’s eyes.

His legs were numb. He glanced at the people underneath the lantern. For one, stupid moment, he thought about calling them for help. Then it clicked into place. The _Tea-tastic_ card. The bright orange gloves. It was contact poison. His vision swam, and he wasn’t sure whether his head fell down or whether the earth moved up to catch him. One of the figures had walked up to him. He blinked, fighting off the sensation that his skull was filled with water. There was a weight pressing on his face. The sole of a boot. It pressed down so firmly he could barely breathe. There were pins and needles all over his body.

\--

He started awake. The cobbled ground was still underneath him. A little further, he recognised the lantern. The people were not underneath it anymore, they were around him. He couldn’t have passed out for long. There was shouting around him. Kicking and hexing. It felt odd, as though he’d been plunged in icy water, unable to feel the pain, only taking notice of it. Whatever idiot poisoned him had given it a numbing quality. _A rookie mistake_ , he thought, and it almost amused him. He thought of his classroom. The cacophony of shouts and magic.

Someone knelt near his face. His head was yanked back by his hair. He stared into a wrinkly woman’s face. “You killed my niece.” Spit hit his face as she said it, her voice shaking. “Murderer.”

His body felt wrong. As though it had been jerked out of the icy water, and was thawing. It was burning all over. It wouldn't listen to him, and kept still even as he tried desperately to move, to flee, to crawl away, if he had to.

“You deserve this.”

The thought repeated itself in his head.

_You deserve this._

_You deserve this._

_You deserve this._

_Yes_ , he thought, _I do_. He closed his eyes, shut them tightly. Rather than the dwindling quiet he had expected, there was a tightness around his chest, as if his heart was beating more fiercely with every iteration of the thought. _You deserve to die_ , a voice in his head said. It was the voice of Lily. There was no more breath left in his lungs. In the tumult around him, he could feel her wrath, her justice, falling down upon him in a rain of broken bones and bloodshed.

_Bury her. Let her go._

His eyes prickled, as though they should not be closed. Reluctantly, he opened them again. There was only painful brightness. His eyes hurt, opened or closed. _You deserve this_ , said a voice. It was no one’s voice. It was everyone’s voice. The voice of the world, of Lily, of his mother. It was the Dark Lord’s voice and it was Albus’s voice. It was his own voice. He gasped for air – cold and burning in his chest. _I know I do_ , said his heart, beating angrily, stubbornly, in his chest. _But I can’t. I have to live._

And it was that simple.

\--

There was a hand on his cheek. He knew who it was. He sighed, deeply, almost contently. His lungs burned as he did so.

It was warm. Soft and warm. He dreamt that he was in the womb, still. In this dream, he could hear the deep vibrations of his mother’s voice. It reverberated through his flesh and bones, which were unformed yet, soft and fragile. The voice was a part of him, and a part of everything around him too. It was wet, in there, and he did not have to breathe. There was a hand on his cheek, and the vibrations in his head grew into a low hum. The waters of the womb turned into hot blankets, and a pillow, soaked with his sweat.

“You are safe,” a voice said. The voice seemed to come from within him, but it was not his. He trusted the voice, the low rumble that was part of his bones and flesh.

“I know.”

\--

“You nearly died.”

Maybe he had. He wouldn’t know. He blinked slowly. The sheets weighed heavily on his thin frame. The large bed made him feel small, like a child. He was not wearing anything, and while the sheets were covering him from chin to toes, it felt inappropriate.

“They poisoned him,” said a voice, coming from the corner of the room. A man, not unlike Albus, stood there. He looked like a less successful version of Albus, Severus thought, his mind still foggy and afloat. As if someone had almost forgotten what Albus looked like, and then had remade him from memory.

“He couldn’t have done much," he added.

“He should have been cautious.” Albus’ voice was sharper now, stinging with something, anger, maybe, or disappointment. But it was not quite either of those. Albus’ hands were in his lap. They fidgeted, but only briefly. Severus had never seen him fidget.

“It was bound to happen, at some point,” the other man said. Severus caught a glimpse of his eyes. Sharp and clear as a winter sky at noon. Just like Albus’. “They’ve been on edge.”

Finally, Albus turned to him again. There was something grim about his face, and something more, but Severus couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was.

“Why did you do that?”

He swallowed. His tongue was coated with the taste of sugary, thick syrup and minty potions. “I went to get tea.”

“Alone.”

“Alone.”

“Why?”

Severus shrugged, and an electric pain rippled through him from his right shoulder down. It woke him up a little more. “I didn’t think they would kill me for buying tea.” There was a hint of petulance in his voice again. Albus’ face softened at that. The lesser Albus, a brother, maybe, or a cousin, left the room, mumbling something under his breath. No one acknowledged it. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

“You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Severus laughed – or at least he tried to. It was a soft and breathy sound, with little joy in it. He reached, slowly, for Albus’ hand, which was fidgeting again. Without hesitation, Albus took his hand in his own.

“I wouldn’t have died,” Severus muttered, stubbornly. He knew it, and it was as simple as that.

“If Aberforth hadn’t been there in time-”

“I wouldn’t have died.”

“They might not have intended to kill you, but the combination of their spells could have.”

Severus shook his head. It felt odd to know what he knew, to have felt what he felt. A reassurance that he did not deserve, but had, nonetheless. A will to live, that was not _from_ him, but _for_ him. A promise he had made. “I wouldn’t have died.”

The silence was heavy. Albus’ face was caught between emotion and thought, and finally, Severus thought he could see that Albus was neither angry nor disappointed. He was upset. Severus averted his eyes, and felt Albus’ fingers tighten around his own.

“You know I would do anything for you.”

The truth always sounded ugly in his mouth. He knew it did. It sounded forced and hoarse and broken. Familiar fingers cupped his chin, and turned his face. Severus had never seen Albus from so close. Had never felt his breath on his lips. He closed his eyes.

It was a very short and very warm kiss. There was a hesitation at the end, as though Albus wanted to lean forward again, to re-capture his lips. Severus held his breath, knowing deep down that he wanted it just as badly. Then the heat was gone, and he stared quietly at the man before him. His head felt light, and he let out a shaky breath.

Before his eyes, Albus had become another man. He was no longer the Albus he had met first – the Headmaster to his student self. A man not unlike the god Severus had learnt about at home. A distant god, with the power to change the ways, and judge the people. Not always a fair god. And he had seen Albus as the Devil too. More powerful even, but on the other side of the war. A man who believed in his own righteousness and his own justice more than anything. And, not long ago, Albus had become a god once more. A personal god. A father. Who forgave and guided.

Now, Albus was no longer an Almighty Being. He was no longer part of a dichotomy – either all virtue, or all sin. Albus was, finally, just who he was. A man. Flawed and beautiful. Strong and soft and warm to the touch.


	5. Chapter 5

Severus spends only two days in the back room of the Hospital Wing. He resumes classes during midweek, much to the dismay of the student (and no less to his own). They are quieter now, more cautious. They watch his hands when he talks, and avert their eyes when he stares. He knows tales go around quickly in little towns like these.

That night, Albus finds him again. They retreat to Albus’ chambers, which are warm and grand and soft. They practice Occlumency until Severus thinks he can hear his brain sloshing between his ears. It is five in the morning, then, and the edge of the sky is pale blue. The two of them are quiet for a moment, staring tiredly at the awakening world. Severus thinks that the sky is not unlike Albus’ eyes, and for a second he thinks he will say it out loud, but all he does is flush, and say goodnight.

The next night, Albus finds him once more. Severus wonders whether, should the Headmaster stop coming, he would be the one to stand at Albus’ door next. A part of him knows he would. Another part of him knows just as certainly that he wouldn’t.

“We are not going to your rooms again,” Severus mutters, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands. “You can just go to bed. I have to walk all the way back.”

“I can walk you back.”

Severus huffs. “That doesn’t lessen my pain.”

“You can stay the night.”

Severus huffs again, but he says nothing. He stays the night.

\--

“We are not going to your rooms again,” Severus grumbles, on the third evening. “I’m not waking up two hours after falling asleep to walk the same damnable distance back to my rooms.”

He has slept little, and very poorly too. All day, his head has been throbbing and his thoughts racing. On seemingly random moments, he would remember lying down next to Albus, the night before. They had been too exhausted to be awkward. It was all elbows and knees, sighs and shy touches. His face still flushes when he thinks about the fingers running through his hair, in slow spirals, until he fell asleep.

Albus chuckles. “It’s Friday. You can sleep in.”

Severus rolls his eyes. He stays the night.

\--

On the fourth evening, Severus says nothing. He slept amiably, the night before, because he was allowed to sleep until noon. Still, he woke to an empty bed, which left him cranky for the best part of the day. Now, he is most definitely not in the mood for brain-prodding and blinding headaches. Albus arrives timely, around midnight, and finds Severus in his lovely office, which is even more poorly lit than it usually is.

Albus greets him as usually, but Severus does not reply. He is bent over a lousy essay, fuelled by the annoyance that has stuck with him all day. Albus closes the door behind him, and Severus smirks, but only mentally. Then Albus comes to his desk, and steps around it, to Severus’ side. He glances, worriedly, at the pile of work that is left to do.

“Do you think you can make some time for me, tonight, Severus?”

“For you, always,” Severus says, without looking up. It sounds almost charming, but he knows that he is as charming as a snake. “For hours of light-headedness, memory-digging, and an all-consuming headache, less so.”

“I’m sure you can spare a moment.”

He puts down his quill and stands up, very close to Albus. “I’m sure I can,” he says, pressing his lips to Albus, who is much less surprised than Severus would have liked him to be.

He hasn’t kissed like this since he was fifteen. It had been one of those “first and a last time” experiences, or at least he had thought so. But now he is standing in his own dingy little office, his fingers curling in Albus’ hair, his mouth heavy with the sensation of someone else’s lips.

They draw back. Severus feels warm. It’s a pleasant, buzzing kind of warmth, that embraces him as much as it comes from deep within him. His breath catches when he feels hot lips just below his ear.

He presses himself close to Albus, feeling the other’s arms curling around him and drawing him closer still. They stand chest-to-chest, and Severus wonders if he ever stood so close to anyone at all. His hands trace Albus’ sides, slowly lowering until they rest on his hips. Albus gently bites his neck and, without thinking, Severus digs his nails into Albus’ hips.

Heat settles in his abdomen, in a way he hasn’t felt for a long time. He can feel himself hardening, and it embarrasses him as much as it exhilarates him. His face is glowing, and he assures himself that the pink flush can’t be visible underneath the dim lights of his office.

Albus draws away slowly, and one of his hands travels down his chest, over his belly, and settles on the crease of his hip. His eyes are barely visible in the dark, but the floating lights reflect keenly in them, and Severus watches him, waits, unsure of what he should do.

“Perhaps tonight we can stay in your room,” he says. There is a hoarseness to his voice, a soft urgency that makes the hairs in Severus’ neck stand. He can feel his flush creeping down his neck, colouring his chest red. All he can do is nod, and give in to the touch that guides him through the door, through the hallway, and into his bedroom.

He is half-erect with just the thought of it. The Headmaster and him, alone, in his room. Their breaths are shallow and quick, their hands warm and restless. His deft fingers slip the shawls from Albus’ shoulders and open his buttons. The heavy robes pool at his feet. When he looks up, a smile, almost a grin, tugs at Albus’ lips. Severus blushes, scowls, and looks away. He might have said something that would have ruined the mood, but he doesn’t trust his voice.

A chaste kiss is pressed to his temple, and then one to his cheek, one where his jaw meets his ear and one below that. Each kiss is a little longer, pressed a little harder, than the previous one.

His robes part, and he realises he didn’t even notice them being unbuttoned. He shrugs them off, and then, reflexively, almost yanks them back up. The shirt he wears is stained, fraying at the edges and missing several buttons. It doesn’t matter, most of the time, because most of the time he is not being undressed. Albus’ hand runs up and down his back soothingly a few times, and he draws away only to kiss Severus on the mouth again.

Those feel best. The kisses on the mouth. They are dizzying, hard and needy. He entangles his fingers in Albus’ hair to draw him closer.

Then suddenly Albus is leaning against him, too much, and he tips over. He lets out a raspy breath when he lands on his bed. The world spins for a moment. Only Albus stays perfectly in place. Then his warm hands run up Severus’ thighs, and he can’t help but gasp when the fingertips graze his inner thighs.

He pushes himself up on his elbows. His erection is tenting his pants. He might have gasped indignantly – ashamedly, really – and pulled away, had Albus not had such predator-like eyes, had he not ran his tongue lightly over his lips, had his thumbs not massaged circles onto his thighs. The circles steadily move higher, the unbearable heat beneath Albus’ hands moving with them.

Then the hands are gone, and Severus knows that if he wants this to stop, if he wants to yank himself free and hide his bare skin, he should do so now. A part of him begs him to run while he still can, but all he can do is watch, so he watches the long fingers unbuckle his belt. He raises his hips a little, and Albus pulls down his trousers.

For some reason, Albus leans forwards, and he places a kiss on Severus’ inner thigh that has no right to be as chaste as it is. Another kiss follows, wetter, harder, than the previous one, and Severus shivers when Albus’ nose grazes his underwear.

The warmth of a breath rolls over his erection. The thin cloth of his underwear is both too little and too much. His hips twitch, and he almost apologises, but no sound will come out of his mouth, only trembling breaths.

Albus strokes him through his underwear, and then slips his hand underneath his waistband, thumb first, drawing slow circles through his curly hair. When his hand finally wraps itself around his cock, Severus shudders, and shuts his eyes, afraid he will come then and there. His underwear is pulled down, and he is stroked lazily over his whole length.

He leans back, eyes closed, certain that if he opens them, if he catches so much as a glimpse of what is going on, a violent shiver will seize him, and he will spill as quickly as a teenage boy.

Maybe he should have expected it, but he doesn’t. His mind is too clouded for any expectations, for anything but a grating obligation to keep his hips from jerking up. When a sudden tight, wet heat wraps itself around the head of his cock, he cries out. He claws at the sheets and bucks his hips, but a steady hand holds him down. He wishes, prays, very feverishly, that he can keep still, that he can keep any ounce of control. Then Albus’ mouth takes in more of his cock, and sucks, and Severus throws his head back, forgetting all thoughts of control, of decadence and pretence. He knows he is moaning, loudly so, and bites into his finger to try to stifle the sound. His hips are rolling up, more desperately so with each wet, slurping suck. His abdomen tighten, and he tries to say something, anything, but all he can do is cry out, and curl his toes, and shudder.


	6. Chapter 6

Halloween passes slowly. There are celebrations, more so than there is mourning. For Severus, however, there is no time for either. Albus insists on practicing Occlumency. With Lily’s death two years behind them, it is high time for Severus to get a grip. And, to his own surprise, he does.

This night, Albus is relentless. The clock has struck three in the morning, yet he is determined to continue. Severus’ head is pounding, and stars taint his vision, but he continues just as stubbornly as Albus. He wonders, not once, whether the bastard is set on hurting him. Whether he needs to cut Severus deeper and deeper each time to see if he still bleeds. And, maybe, a little bleeding is due.

_Wet soil, clinging to his boots. The sloshing noise of each step through the mud is too loud. The air is so damp you can almost taste it. A thin light balances on the tip of his wand, trembling ever so faintly in his grip._

_The light at the end of this tunnel is very bleak. It crawls out from underneath an old, wooden door, and latches onto dust and dirt. Severus swallows. The door opens with a push, and lets out a long creak. If there were any thoughts left in his head, he might’ve feared someone would hear him down there. If there were any thoughts left in his head, he might’ve thought twice before poking his ugly nose through the gap._

_There are two yellow eyes, and a tongue lolling between knife-like teeth. The hot, reeking breath hits his face. All he hears is his own heartbeat, racing in his ears._

_The beast lurches forwards._

_Everything is a blur. A force jerks him back around his waist, and he lets out a strangled noise. He braces himself too late, and lands hard on the cold, muddy ground. The bang against the door is deafeningly loud, and the wood bends and creaks. Severus stares at his foot, which had caught in the door, and is bent at an odd angle._

_“Snape! What the hell are you doing here?”_

_Potter._

_Severus snaps his head to the side. “Fuck off,” he wheezes, struggling to breathe. “I’m going to- going to tell the Headmaster-”_

_“Shut up.” Potter grabs him by the arm, drags up and away. Severus’ knees give in, but Potter doesn’t wait, and so he stumbles after him. There is frantic growling and scratching from behind the door. Severus realises he is shaking all over. Potter jerks him forwards. He is shaking too. “Just shut up.”_

_“You shut up!” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it breaks nonetheless. There are black dots swimming before his eyes. There is, once again, light at the end of the tunnel. Moonlight. His knees are shaking worse with each step, but he knows that he will crawl out of hellhole if he has to. He trips over a root of the Whomping Willow, clutching onto Potter. Everything goes dark for a second, and then he is struggling to get to his feet again._

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Potter’s voice is high and panicky. “Don’t faint!”_

_He has big hands for a boy. That’s all Severus can think about when Potter grabs him tightly around his waist and pulls him out of there. The icy night wind cuts in his face and heavy drops of rain fall down on them._

_“Sod off.” His voice is barely more than a high-pitched whisper by now. His hands are shaking but he can’t pry them loose from Potter. “I’m going to tell the Headmaster.”_

_James yanks him forwards again. “Will you shut up?”_

_Severus aims a punch, and misses. He slips, and collapses into the mud. His robes are soaked and stick to him. He claws at James, who tries to pull him back on his feet. “You nearly killed me!”_

_“I didn’t-”_

_“You’ll pay for this!”_

Everything slows down. James’ voice is low and old and quiet and not his own. “Severus.”

The memory shatters. The room crawls back into place. Colours bleed back into the furniture. Albus’ face is distorted, his blue eyes too far away and too close at the same time. He looks upset. _Good_ , Severus thinks.

“Yes?”

Albus looks down briefly, almost as though he is ashamed. Severus arches his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry for what I did back then. For not protecting you, when I should have.”

“Not that it matters anymore.”

Albus looks as though he wants to say something, but in the end, there is nothing to say. It doesn’t matter, even if Albus wishes he could force it to. Tonight, it’s not Severus who bleeds, and that alone is almost enough to make up for it.

\--

For a painstakingly long while, Severus fears that their one sexual encounter will be their only one. If Albus doesn’t approach him, he knows all too well that nothing will happen. It’s busy, of course, and certainly for the Headmaster, so he blames it on that. And it’s only natural that his Occlumency lessons have priority over such frivolous things as sex. Moreover, Severus thinks (or fears) that Albus simply doesn’t have the sexual desires that Severus very much experiences. Or maybe it just wasn’t that good. Maybe Severus was supposed to reciprocate, and he made a fool of himself by being so overwhelmed and awkward, that Albus thought it wiser not to repeat the experience.

Quidditch, at least, brings some distraction. Severus never considered himself a fan of sports in any way, but his team is doing well, so he supposes it’s only appropriate to support them. What he didn’t expect was that he’d be cheering for the green Beater that kicked a Gryffindor off his broom, or that he’d be biting his knuckles when the red Seeker just barely missed the Snitch. Then their green Seeker catches it, and Severus finds himself jumping to his feet. He can contain his cheers, and settles for smug clapping.

The best part is receiving McGonagall’s thin-lipped congratulations. He doesn’t hide his gloating, and can’t help but praise his clever Seeker girl. If he trivialises the Gryffindor players’ efforts in the process, that’s only because it’s true. Before McGonagall can formulate a terse reply, he overhears one of his students saying something along the lines of, “Didn’t you hear what Snape said? We won because we’re too smart for Gryffindor tactics.” And that is, to Severus’ knowing, the first time a student speaks of him in such a way. A way that insinuates that they are on the same side. It is the moment in which Severus figures out just how to bring this house together.

McGonagall is a sore loser, which only doubles his pleasure. He knows Albus isn’t big on sports, but he’s big on sports being a co-operative thing, and not a competitive thing, so he does expect a gentle scolding. He knows it all already: that he is a bad winner, that he shouldn’t taunt McGonagall about losing, that he shouldn’t feed off of House animosity, blah blah blah. It surprises him when, instead of saying any of that, Albus seems almost endeared. It almost seems as though Albus knows he should tell him off, but can’t. It only adds up to the many victories of the day, and he can’t help gloating even more. _Who is his favourite now!_ he thinks. This time, Severus gets the last laugh.

The thought of being anyone’s favourite, of being Albus’ favourite in specific, is almost intoxicating. He kisses Albus, hard, and feels just a little invincible when Albus meets him with equal desire. Their hands move impatiently, and press hard. Severus is pushed into a chair, and before he can ask where that is going, Albus kneels before him, and he figures it out rather quickly.

There is no doubt about whether or not having someone suck you off is enjoyable, at least not for Severus. However, he supposes that Albus’ eagerness to do the work means there must be some degree of joy in doing all the work, too. Some days he thinks he would like to reciprocate, but then again, it just doesn’t seem very appealing.

It takes a few more times before Severus starts noticing the pattern (to getting laid). Albus tends to stick to Occlumency lessons most of the time, only allowing exceptions when Severus is having a good day. That of its own is not a common occurrence, unfortunately, but it does happen. On those good days, their practicing starts off with a little bit of pride on Severus’ side; bragging about his students’ rising grades, or a potion that finally came out the way it should. This is followed by a little bit of strategical complimenting and cajoling on Albus’ side. Soon enough, they lean in for a peck, and then for a kiss, until the kisses are only broken by smirks and half-mocking flattery.

Just a few days after his birthday (which was miserable, should you like to know), it is finally Severus who sinks to his knees before Albus. He tells himself that it can’t be that hard to do. It can’t be as disgusting and weird as he sometimes imagines it to be. He licks the head of Albus’ cock carefully, and notes with no little interest the needy sigh that follows it. It’s neither particularly tasty, nor particularly gross. The skin is hard, warm and just a little moist. Albus’ knuckles are white, and his eyes are intense; they don’t leave Severus once. He slowly takes it into his mouth, trying to imagine what it must look like from Albus’ point of view. The thought sends a shiver down his spine. He tries to see himself, barely old enough to be a teacher, on his knees before the Headmaster, taking the latter’s hard cock into his mouth. Albus’ hips twitch, and Severus hums smugly, to which Albus shudders. It quickly becomes clear that Albus too can make embarrassing, needy sounds, and they go straight to Severus’ own dick. He sucks and moans and chokes around Albus’ cock. After a bit of fumbling, he reaches down one hand to stroke himself off as well. His erection is straining in his pants, and he moans against Albus’ dick. Suddenly Albus’ hand grabs his hair tightly, and thrusts jerkily into Severus’ mouth. The wetness that coats his tongue makes him swallow convulsively, drawing a ragged moan from Albus. Severus shuts his eyes tightly, and comes mere seconds later.

It doesn’t always go that well, of course. One night, Albus is a little less inclined to be gentle. He yanks Severus’ head back by his hair and bites his nipple. Severus ends up coming halfway through the foreplay, too embarrassed to be of much use after. Albus is as amused as he is aroused by it. Severus refuses to have his hair pulled anymore.

Another night, he makes the mistake of pausing during their hasty undressing, and asks about the scars on Severus’ back. After a brisk explanation (they’re childhood souvenirs), Severus finds that he can’t get it up. The rest of the night is long and silent and awkward.

Some nights Albus doesn’t climax. He says it’s fine, a part of aging, but Severus can’t help but blame his own lacking skills. It’s not until his own nightmares begin that Severus realises that, just because someone touches you right, it doesn’t guarantee anything. He spends weeks shying away from any touch, certain that Albus will receive the wrong message if he realises that Severus isn’t coming anymore to his touch. In hindsight, he supposes that his sudden withdrawal sent the wrong message anyway.

It takes a while before Albus can convince him into late night cuddling. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that they can’t do certain things. Severus can’t shake off the thought that they must be a little broken, that way. After a while, he takes an odd comfort in that thought.

Much like during his teenage years, the approach of summer is nothing enticing to him. The thought of spending two months alone in his dingy little house with his father haunts him. He can’t stand it. The scent of tobacco that is baked into the walls. The broken windows behind which Spinner’s End decays. The late-night howling of an alcoholic mourning his dead wife.

It’s late March when he makes a decision, and halfway through June before he brings it up with Dumbledore.

“I want to do it properly,” he insists, over tea.

Albus arches an eyebrow. Severus wishes desperately that he could convey his thoughts without having to say them out loud.

“Not just hands,” Severus mutters. “Or mouths.” He pauses, and clears his throat. “I want to do it all the way.”

He would never tell Albus, but up until recently, he had no idea men could even do it all the way. It was one of the illicit magazines he had confiscated off of his students that had enlightened him, with images that frightened him as much as they turned him on.

What the glorified, clean images did not show him, was the work that had to be done before any sex could happen. Severus finds out in the middle of their foreplay that he might not know everything that there is to know about gay sex, when a finger touches him down there.

He jerks up, his face bright read, and he nearly knocks Albus in the head with his foot. “What are you doing?”

Albus raises his head, the predatory look in his eyes not lessening. “Preparing you.”

“What?”

There is a small pause. Severus can tell that he said something stupid.

“You’ve never done this before?”

Severus glares, despite blushing even more fiercely, and then looks away. “I already told you I’ve never done anything like this.”

Albus kisses his inner thigh tenderly. “I mean with yourself, but I take it as a no.”

 _Do what with myself?_ Severus wants to ask, but Albus gently pushes him back down, and tells him to relax. With one hand around his cock, and one between Severus’ butt cheeks, the spiel continues. Very carefully, a well-lubricated finger is pressed _in there_. Severus grabs a pillow, and hides his face underneath it. If he’d known how much lube this sort of thing required, he’d never even tried.

He is caught off guard when suddenly, a jolt of pleasure runs through him. He stifles his moan into the pillow. Albus’ finger rubs him, on the inside, making him feel hot all over in a way that is entirely too good. His back arches as the pleasure builds, and he can’t help but spread his legs a little wider.

Another finger goes in, and Severus wants to kick it away, until it hits that spot again. He gasps softly, and feels Albus smirking against his skin. Begrudgingly, he relaxes again. Both fingers massage him from within, and he moans loudly, clinging onto the pillow for dear life.

“S-stop,” he breathes, and is relieved when Albus immediately does so. All he needs is another firm stroke, and he is sure to come. Instead of admitting that, he says “One more.”

The pain is very sharp and pronounced now, and he lies very still, breathing shallowly as the fingers ease their way in. It takes a little longer for the heat to return, but it does. The fingers are up to their knuckles inside him, brushing and teasing him until he can’t help but cry out. He bucks his hips, wishing he could somehow have more of it.

Albus asks something about being ready, and Severus agrees, because at this point he would agree to anything. What he does not expect is for the fingers to be removed. Even more unexpected is the dull ache that comes with being stretched and empty. He lets out a startled yelp and shifts uncomfortably, relaxing only when Albus kisses him, and mutters softly to him, their lips brushing.

The wet, blunt tip of Albus’ cock presses against him. He shudders, and shuts his eyes, and agrees once more, because the waiting has got to be worse than the enduring. The burn is highly unpleasant. His erection is gone by the time Albus is entirely inside of him, which takes forever. He inhales shallowly when it’s finally in, and runs his hand through Albus’ greying hair.

It’s the first time he sees Albus so undone. His breath is ragged, and he moves slowly and twitchily. Carefully, Severus rolls his hips, trying to get some friction in the right place again. Albus gasps and grunts at the motion. His nails dig sharply into Severus’ skin. It doesn’t feel as good as the fingers, not as precise, he supposes, but seeing Albus this way more than makes up for it. He lies back, and forces himself to relax, and then rolls his hips again. He basks in the sound of Albus’ catching breath, and the throaty moans that ensue. He can feel the bruises forming from his iron grip. Albus thrusts into him, slowly first, but the pace quickly picks up. Severus spreads his legs wider, and arches his back, marvelling at how Albus loses control. His thrusts become hard and uncontrolled, his nails dragging across Severus’ skin. _It’s definitely worth it_ , he thinks smugly, when Albus shudders violently, with Severus’ name on his lips.

\--

The next morning, Severus wakes to an empty bed. The place next to him is cold and long empty. He contemplates throwing off the sheets, and leaving them on the floor for Albus to find. He considers leaving a single button from his shirt that had fell off the night before. He thinks about soaking in Albus’ bath until the scent of bergamot and mandarin clings to his skin, impossible not to notice should he pass by. And he wouldn’t take a bath without leaving all the soap bottles open, of course. Would be a shame if one of them toppled over, too. To finish it off, he leaves his half-finished teacup is left on Albus’ desk as well.

He is only ten minutes late to the meeting. No one says anything, and for once, Severus couldn’t care less about it if they did. As he sits down, the soreness in his lower regions flares up. He shifts, and as the meeting drones on, find the dull ache not as bad as he thought it would be. Not bad at all. He crosses his legs, and his skin tingles, sensitive with bruises. It feels decadent, to sit among them, knowing that the Headmaster to which they were listening so intently had come inside him trembling and moaning mere hours ago.

That night, Albus will sleep alone, as he does on most Thursdays. But he will not go to bed without remembering Severus’ absence, in the cold tea on his desk, the mess in his bedroom, and the shampoo that had been left to leak onto the bathroom floor.


	7. Chapter 7

**THIS IS THE RE-UPLOADED CHAPTER 7.**

**IF YOU HAVE READ THE FIRST VERSION, PLEASE RE-READ THIS CHAPTER, BECAUSE DIFFERENT EVENTS TAKE PLACE.**

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\--

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The years crawl by, little by little. Before Severus knows it, young Mr Potter is among them. A scrawny boy of barely eleven years old. Severus thanks all deities he knows for his appearance. Only his eyes haunt him. Green and wide and fierce. Full of resentment. It hurts, and that’s exactly how it’s supposed to feel. Severus has no right to be looked at in any other way by those eyes.

The boy can’t help it, but sitting behind the desk, scribbling on his parchment, he looks far too much like his father. For the first time in eight years, Severus’ hands are shaking. He thinks that, after years of not standing a chance, he may finally have his revenge. It’s childish and petty, which he is well aware of, but there is something immensely satisfying in seeing the anger in Potter’s face, and there is nothing the little brat can do about it. For once it isn’t Severus who is helpless and pathetic.

Albus chides him for his treatment of the boy. It’s unnecessarily cruel. Severus doesn’t bother to explain that there’s nothing unnecessary about it. It’s not as though he can look at the boy and not remember, not resent and regret all at once. A part of him knows he should be better than this, but then again, another part of him knows that he really isn’t. He never was a good man, and refuses to believe he will ever grow to be one. Let Albus keep his idealistic beliefs to himself. Most unfortunately, he was never one to keep his beliefs to himself, or his accusations.

“He is not James Potter.”

Severus rolls his eyes, but his voice is no less cold. “And neither is he the fragile, flawless little boy you all imagine him to be.”

Albus grabs him by his wrist, and his grip surprisingly strong. Severus flinches, and for a fraction of a second he is stupidly certain that he is about to be struck in the face. Instead of a slap to the cheek, there is a high-strung silence. Very slowly, almost reluctantly, Albus peels his fingers off of Severus again. He turns away, as though he can’t look at Severus anymore, who keeps perfectly still, overwhelmed by the urge to jerk Albus back by his sleeve and do something very regrettable himself. At this point, he thinks he would have preferred for Albus to strike him. They are too good at the game of looking the other way, and quietly hurting one another.

Truth be told, Severus isn’t surprised with everyone’s adoration for the boy. Minerva praises him to the heavens, the other teachers think his recklessness is but healthy cheekiness, and the student body is either in awe or struck with jealousy. It’s not as though he hasn’t seen it all before, some 20 years ago. As annoying as it may be, it’s certainly not surprising. It’s Albus’ grand-fatherly affection that stings the worst.

“I thought that all this Gryffindor favouritism had ended,” he says smoothly. “But apparently not.” Albus sighs. Severus almost asks him if he sighs like that with Potter too. Instead, he continues. “Apparently, you were all just waiting for a new red-and-golden sweetheart.”

“That’s enough.”

Albus sounds tired, exasperated, disappointed. Severus knows he should feel bad, as he once did, but right now he only wishes Albus would hurt more. “You think he is a charming little boy, but you deny that this so-called charm of his has made him flawless in your eyes.”

“You know you are being childish-”

“Oh, _I_ am the childish one now!”

“Yes, Severus, and unless you can control yourself-”

“ _I_ have to control myself now! Pray tell, have you told Potter to-”

“Enough!”

It’s the first time that Albus raises his voice with Severus. There’s a cold, uncomfortable silence that follows. They stare at one another, both wondering whether they should have seen it coming. The silence lasts, and lasts, until Severus raises his chin, spins on his heels, and leaves. If Albus loves his precious Potter that much, then he clearly doesn’t need Severus anymore. The thought is filled with a burning rage, and he wishes he could have yelled it at Albus. The longer it dwells on his mind, the more he realises that those exact same words weigh much heavier on his own shoulders than on Albus’.

For the rest of the week, Severus ignores him. Unless it’s necessary, he doesn’t speak to Albus anymore, and doesn’t even look at him. It should have been satisfying, to some degree, had it not been obvious that Albus barely notices. In the wee hours of the night, Severus begins to wonder if Albus thinks of him at all.

He does, apparently. One dreary late night, the door to Severus’ office creaks open. A flash of light is aimed towards the empty hearth, where it becomes a fire. Severus’ eyes are burning with tiredness, and the light pierces his throbbing head. He says nothing when Albus sets down two cups of steaming tea. The scent of earl grey and chamomile tea warms the cold, wet November night.

“How have you been?”

The question lingers in the air between them for a long while before Severus answers. He is well aware that everything is in his own hands now. His answer will decide the course of the night. Perhaps the course of many other things after this night too. His mouth is very dry, and his lips chapped. He picks up the tea to stall. There is a minty scent he catches, and he pauses momentarily, glancing towards Albus. A healing potion, really? He takes a small, reluctant sip. The warmth of the drink slides down his throat and spreads into his body. His allows his shoulders to slump, and sighs deeply.

“Can I file a request for new course material? The textbooks are horribly outdated.”

It’s the best he can do. Not answering the question is the most honest answer he can give. He doesn’t have the strength to yell, but even less so to lie. Not to Albus, at least.

“I’m afraid that would have to go through the Ministry.”

Severus hides his disgusted expression by rubbing his eyes. The Ministry can stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. If his face is ever seen at the Ministry again, it’ll be on its way to Azkaban, textbooks or not.

Albus watches him over the rim of his spectacles. The warmth he once harboured in his eyes has chilled.

The conversation stays within these lines, just as Severus’ answer had determined it would. It’s a truce, fragile and unsatisfying, but it’s a truce nonetheless. They weigh their words and measure their sentences, knowing that one wrong step can send them back to grating silence, if not worse. It’s hard to talk about anything when everything leads back to Potter – school, the war, the past, the future, the damnable child is everywhere. They talk, with long pauses, without looking at one another for longer than a few seconds at a time. They want more, but Severus is bitter, and Albus disappointed, so they spend their time waiting until the other changes.

The following months merge into one long, ongoing day. The truce between them is still intact, somewhat more battered than it first was, but still there. It grows to be more tiresome than the arguing was. Severus wishes he could just decide – to pull Albus in, or push him out. At night, he writhes in between insomnia and nightmares, silently begging for things to go back to how they once were. During the day, in the smug face of Potter, he is always on the verge of cursing him, Albus, and the whole damn school while he’s at it.

It is by accident that Severus ends up in the wrong hallway. The stairs turned in the wrong time. He doesn’t mind, and takes the longer route to the dungeons. It is also entirely accidentally that he passes a door that he knows wasn’t there before. It catches his attention, and he stops, looking cautiously around him. His fingers trace over the wood, and tingle with the imbued magic. With a clever little spell, the lock opens.

The room is a small storage room. Dust and cobwebs cover everything, except for the one object in the middle of the room. Severus walks around it, his wand in his hand, and stills when he sees it’s some sort of mirror. He then quickly turns around, but Albus is not behind him. His mirror-self looks back at him, smugly, and tilts his head back almost tauntingly as Albus cups his face. Albus looks at his mirror-self is with such fondness that Severus turns away. His hands itch, and he leaves the room, before the urge to shatter it can overpower him.

“What’s the mirror for?” he asks, offhandedly, during one of their final afternoon teas of the year.

June is wet with hot showers, that year. Severus hopes he won’t come home to a flooded house. He plays idly with his quill while staring out of the window.

“The Mirror of Erised?”

“The one stowed away in one of the storerooms on the second floor.”

Albus watches him closely for a second. The question – _what did you see?_ – burns on his lips, but he doesn’t ask it, to Severus’ relief. Instead, he says, “It shows you your deepest desire.”

Although Severus’ face remains perfectly unchanged, the quill snaps cleanly in half, and ink drips down his fingers. He looks at his hand as though it misbehaved on its own, and then accepts a tissue from Albus to wipe it off with. For the rest of the day, he can keep himself from thinking of what Albus might see in the mirror. He doesn’t care about what – or who – Albus sees. He doesn’t care if it’s not him, and he has an entire summer to convince himself of that.

When June finally does come to an end, Severus doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or not. It’s hard to decide whether Spinner’s End is truly the refuge he wants to escape to. Coincidentally, it is also the first summer he will spend in an empty house. Although he rarely enjoyed his parent’s company, especially in their last few years, he never spent much thought on what he would do with himself once they were gone.

He leaves Hogwarts without any goodbyes. He hopes that Albus will find himself alone in the dingy dungeons with two cups of tea, and that, at least for one second, he will wish that Severus were still there.

Cokeworth is decaying. Even the prettier part of it, where the old house of Lily Evans still stands, is beginning to crumble underneath the town’s losses. The mill has been closed, what little stores there were now have permanent closed signs in their windows, and the park is occupied by feral dogs and drug dealers. It begins to look as though Spinner’s End has expanded through the entire town.

His house is slumped against the neighbouring one, and he almost calls his father’s name when entering. The living room smells of mould and the wallpaper has peeled off almost entirely. The single duffel bag he carried with him is thrown on a chair, and for once there is no one to tell him to “take that shit upstairs”. He picks the cleanest-looking blanket and curls up on the couch, trying to convince himself that a thirty-something years old should bathe in the freedom of a parent-less house.

The first few days go by slowly. He constantly catches himself looking for his father, and once even for his mother. She’s been dead for seventeen years, for Christ’s sake. He eats his meals at the table, despite his father not being around to tell him he can’t eat on the couch. There is no longer anyone to make breakfast for, or to bring the newspaper to, or to collect shards from the floor after. There is nothing but eerily quiet days and sweltering nights. These thoughts haunt him as he is bent over his plain oatmeal, and he idly wonders if he is going mad.

Somewhere during the schoolyear, the window to his room was broken. It could be mended, but he can’t bring himself to care enough, or to scrape together enough energy. His dad would skin him if he knew Severus magicked around in the house. But his dad is dead, which means the bigger bedroom is free, so Severus has to worry about neither magicking glass nor taping newspapers to the window. In his parent’s bedroom, there is a small hole in the roof, through which the heat and bugs crawl in.

When he’s not home, he’s two streets down the road, cleaning his mother’s old headstone. It’s right next to it is his father’s new one. Headstones that are still whole, clean, and sharp-edged unsettle him. He never thought he’d visit their graves so much.

One sweltering Sunday morning, on the way back home, he is seized by a sudden impulse as he passes the church. Even though he strongly questions his sanity with each step towards it, he doesn’t turn around. A few heads turn to watch him enter, but the mass continues. No one recognises the scrawny Snape boy that once attended these masses every week. The old priest still has the same raspy, soft voice that Severus remembers from long ago.

“There is none as precious to the Lord as the poor,” he says. “The pauper is God’s most devoted servant, for he has no one and nothing else but God.”

The phrase sticks with him. It follows him home, echoing through his head as he looks down on the rows of collapsing houses. God must love Cokeworth.

“I’m home,” he says, to an empty house. No one is shouting about the neighbours, or singing mouth-to-mouth with a bottle of whiskey, or throwing cups around (by habit, more than out of anger, but there’s always a reason to be miserable). Severus turns on the telly and curls into the corner of the couch, where he watches football games and commercials for fizzy drinks as the long, humid summer passes.


	8. Chapter 8

**IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE RE-UPDATED VERSION OF CHAPTER 7, PLEASE GO BACK AND READ IT!**

**DIFFERENT EVENTS HAVE HAPPENED!**

**CHAPTER 7 TAKES PLACE DURING HARRY POTTER'S FIRST YEAR, THIS CHAPTER DURING HIS SECOND.**

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As September approaches, Severus is looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. He thinks that maybe he can let go of all the attention Potter receives. Maybe he _is_ being childish. Maybe he _should_ grow up. Loneliness makes him agree to things he never thought he would. At the very least, he genuinely looks forward to seeing Albus again. On the way to Hogwarts, he considers some kind of genuine peace offering. A present, maybe. A lemon cake. Lavender tea.

Said peace offering is thrown into the trash when, on the first day of school, Potter arrives by flying car, and gets no more than a gentle slap on the wrist for it.

“Albus, a flying car, for fuck’s sake!” He doesn’t hear his own voice anymore. His shouting sounds like his father’s, rasp and hot and shaking with rage. “They were seen! They could’ve been caught! Dead! Are you going fucking senile?” His hands are moving of their own accord. Somewhere in between _dead_ and _senile_ , a teapot it shattered.

The rest of the evening is spent cursing and shouting (from Severus’ side) and in silent judgement (from Albus’ side). It sounds too much like all the other fights they’ve had, and it ends just the same. This time Severus does not keep his thoughts to himself, and they burn in his throat as he accuses Albus of things he won’t even remember once he steps out the door.

What he also doesn’t remember is how he got back to his room. As soon as the door closes behind him, and he knows he is all alone, he collapses against the wall, and slides down onto the floor. His heart is racing, and his head is light. The sound of his own shallow breaths fills his head. Some time passes, but whether it’s a minute or an hour, he can’t tell. His body is still shaking all over by the time he has dragged himself to bed. He wonders why he still bothers, with Albus, with being here, with any of this. It becomes the only thought left on his mind, iterating itself continuously, until it loses its meaning, and is nothing more than a jumble of words he can’t let go. _Why do I still bother?_

As days pass, and as they merge into weeks, the silence once again reigns between him and Albus. The question, _why do I still bother?_ , remains unanswered.

The more Severus thinks about it, the more firmly he believes that everything comes back down to Potter. Ever since the brat set foot in Hogwarts, Severus’ life has been in a downward spiral, and Albus is too pre-occupied to care. It only adds to the already very long list of reasons why he hates the boy. It’s funny, because he also knows damn well that none of the reasons have much to do with the boy himself. He hates James. He hates the choices he himself made regarding Lily. He hates Albus, and everyone who is fooled by the little brat. He hates himself. Potter just happens to be the pivot point around which all of that revolves.

During the nights, when there is no Potter, the memory of Albus’ embrace still haunts him with unbearable clarity. It’s not easy to point a finger at Potter when confronted with his own ugly self. Whenever he is alone with himself for too long, he becomes painfully aware of why other people don’t like him. He hates himself. The sound of his own voice annoys him. Even the process of brewing cannot distract him from himself. He clears his throat and quells the sudden urge to claw out his own throat. In the reflection of glass vials, the piercing blackness of his own eyes stares him down. That’s not even mentioning the bathroom, which he has avoided for days now, just because the damnable mirror will say something. And, as he reaches the wee hours of the night, the clumsiness of his own shaking hands sends him into a blind rage.

The pointless rage leaves him breathless and light-headed on the floor, surrounded by shards and goo and beetle wings. He wonders if he has become his father. Maybe, in some obscene way, he has embodied his own father, in a fruitless attempt to not be alone with himself. A sound between a laugh and a sob escapes him.

The next morning, more than ever, he understands why he has no friends. It’s plain obvious why barely anyone can even tolerate his company. And yet he craves, more than ever, for someone to distract him from the grating awareness of himself.

He sits at the table, nauseous with the scent of bacon and eggs and beans, poking absent-mindedly at a piece of toast. Minerva, next to him, is encaging energetically in some conversation about Quidditch. She used to argue about it with him all the time. She used to be friendly with him, before the snotty Potter child showed his ugly face.

He almost misses it when she turns to him, and smiles, and nods, as a way of greeting him. He glares at her, cursing her and the boy and everyone at the table while he’s at it. The irony of what he wants and what he does, does not escape him.

It’s around this time when Lockhart comes into the picture. If anyone were capable of ignoring Severus’ rudeness, it would be someone who is too full of himself to care. Initially, Lockhart is nothing but a bothersome figure who will meet a sticky end by the end of the school year. Severus will always insist that he noticed certain things about Lockhart because he trained himself to pay attention to detail, rather than because he was looking for it.

One of those curious little details is that Lockhart kisses the hands of women, and of men. Although a few others noticed this peculiarity too, it is dismissed as a part of his frivolous and eccentric personality. In a society that can’t even see the efficiency of fountain pens, there is certainly no place for one man’s attraction to another.

“Severus, my good friend,” Lockhart greets him, after which he lets himself into Severus’ office. “I’ve been looking for you!”

Severus’ grip on his quill tightens. He forces himself to raise his head, and glances at the clock. It is well past twelve. Three hours of working through horrendous assignments has left him with burning eyes and preciously little patience.

“What?”

In a few quick and elegant paces, Lockhart is next to him, peeking curiously over his shoulder. “My, my, you seem quite busy. You’re a very hard-working man, aren’t you?”

He puts the quill down, and rubs his cramped hand. With a cool voice he replies, “Some of us do take the position of teacher serious.”

Lockhart laughs. A deep, charming laugh. It’s a pleasant sound. Severus rolls his eyes.

“That reminds me,” Lockhart says, in the tone of voice that everyone came to understand as the story-telling voice, “I used to be quite deft at making potions myself!”

Unlike the others, Severus is not too bothered with this endless, meaningless chatter. Lockhart is a simpleton, happy with blabbering on about anything, without requiring Severus’ attention or input. Even now, at the end of a long day, he finds himself postponing the shooing of Lockhart. He looks up from the assignments, and watches Lockhart, who draped himself over one of the uncomfortable, wooden chairs as though it were a chaise longue.

It could have been Albus, here, inviting him into his bedroom. Or McGonagall, passing by to ask him if he wanted to come for a game of chess. But they don’t come here often anymore, not if they can help it. All Severus has left is the hyperactive narcissist that no one else wants.

“Lockhart-”

“Please, call me Gilderoy.”

“I’m retiring to bed. Please leave.”

Lockhart rises elegantly from the chair. “I would not dream of keeping you from your sleep,” he says, and his eyes are gleaming in a way that make Severus uncomfortable. He stands up, and cleans up his quill and ink so that he doesn’t have to look at him.

“Goodnight.”

As always, Lockhart bows, and then gently takes Severus’ hand into his own, giving him a chaste kiss. Unlike always, his lips linger, and his breath ghosts over Severus’ knuckles. A sudden shiver runs down his spine, and he quickly jerks his hand back.

“Sweet dreams, Severus.”

The door closes with a soft click. Severus stands still for a few seconds, holding his breath and listening to the footsteps that fade down the corridor.

Although he ought to be scandalised, Severus can’t help but feel elated. Lockhart’s move made him realise two things. Firstly, he is not, as he previously believed, reliant on Albus when it comes to sexual encounters – or any encounters of the romantic like. Clearly, Lockhart wouldn’t mind, and Lockhart is a handsome young man. Not that Severus has any interest in taking him up on the unspoken offer. The second part is far more important: Albus needs to make realisation number one as well. Once Albus realises that Severus is not exclusive to him, he will realise that he too should put some effort into whatever they have, or had, once more.

The problem is that Albus has no idea about Lockhart’s interest in Severus. But Albus has a keen eye – surely, a few subtleties will catch his attention.

And so, the subtleties begin. Lockhart is not as daft as he seems, not when he can smell opportunity, so he follows along nicely. To the unobservant eye, there is nothing out of the ordinary between them. Severus is merely polite. It’s basic politeness which discerns him from the others, however. It’s not uncommon for Pomona to leave the room halfway through Lockhart’s tales, for Minerva to talk over him, or even for Albus to be distracting himself with something more important.

Basic politeness is not really remarkable, however, which leaves a bitter taste in Severus’ mouth. He doesn’t mind Lockhart’s presence, but he is loathe to hint at any sort of friendship between the two. He supposes that, every now and then, he could allow for Lockhart to touch him. Nothing improper, of course. A pat on the shoulder, a hand on his arm, and once or twice, fingertips against his lower back.

The attention, limited as it is, fuels Severus. He watches Albus, closely, for any hint of jealousy, or at least a prolonged stare. If he would just notice something, that would be enough for Severus. For now, at least. But, if Albus notices anything, he doesn’t show it. This doesn’t stop Severus from imagining he does. When Lockhart spends the evening in Severus’ office, talking excitedly about heroic adventures, Severus imagines Albus walking in. He imagines the briefly confused expression crossing his face. The realisation. The gentle dislike of this development. The conversation he would have with Severus, in the privacy of one of their bedrooms, afterwards, just to make sure there’s nothing going on between the two of them. Severus shifts in his seat, half-erect for the first time in months. When Lockhart finally leaves, he palms himself through his robes, the thought of Albus walking in on him still on his mind.

After one of the following meetings, Albus asks him to stay behind for a private conversation. Severus is carefully disinterested. When, finally, the room is empty, he prays to god that this talk will be about them, or at least about Lockhart.

“Have you considered the Malfoy library?”

Severus blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“The monster hidden in the Chamber of Secrets, have you thought about going through their library to see if you can find anything?”

Severus is quiet for a moment. Although the monster has caused considerable disturbance, petrified students honestly don’t matter much to him. Petrified children can’t break rules, after all. “I shall-”

“Excuse me.” Lockhart’s head pops into the room. Severus’ heart picks up its pace. Maybe this will stir anything from Albus. “I, and a few other colleagues, are going to Rosmerta’s this evening. Care to join?”

He offers a toothy smile. Albus shakes his head. “I’m afraid I’m otherwise occupied tonight.”

Severus wonders briefly whether he himself is part of said occupation. He licks his lips to refuse, but then changes his mind just as the words leave his lips. “I will be there.”

Lockhart leaves with a wide grin. Albus watches him leave, and then turns back to Snape. His expression is as cool and calculated as before. “I have a few hypotheses about the monster, but I will discuss this further with you once you’ve done the research.”

With that, he bids Severus farewell.

Severus makes sure to wear his most decent looking robes that night. He touches no drinks, and keeps Lockhart at a distance. Minerva and Pomona discuss politics, for which Severus is entirely too sober. None of the other teachers really talk with him. Hagrid is nice enough to sit next to him, and occasionally, between large sips of butterbeer, he smiles broadly at him. In the plain honesty and drunkenness of his smile, Severus can find no flaw, and he consoles himself with the thought that there is at least one man among them who truly and unconditionally likes him, despite of who he is. It does not help much, of course, because the evening is young and the night long. As time slowly passes, Severus runs through his memories and speculations, growing more bitter with every passing second. Especially Albus’ complete disinterest in Lockhart’s presence fuels his anger. His thoughts swing from one side to another. Either he is being pathetic, to try and draw Albus’ attention in such a tasteless way, or he is simply not trying hard enough.

The way back home is more awful still. It is cold, and wet, and a headache is beginning right behind his eyes. His head is heavy with the fumes of the bar and his stomach empty. His own sobriety agitates him, worsened by the warm laughter of the others.

“Severus, Severus, wait for me.”

Lockhart’s voice sounds just a little slurred, but not very. The man hooks his arm around Severus’, and smiles brightly. He begins blabbering on about the night, and then of some other night that it reminded him of, in which he was some heroic saviour.

He knows that he should bid Lockhart a good night once they arrive at the castle entrance, but when Lockhart guides him towards the dungeons, he doesn’t say anything. They arrive at his door, and he knows he should close it in front of Lockhart’s nose, and then crawl into his cold, empty bed. Lockhart asks him for a glass of water, and he knows he should tell him to bugger off, to get it from the kitchens, but Lockhart follows him into his rooms, and somehow he still hasn’t protested yet.

It’s the passiveness about it that makes it so easy. Should Lockhart expect anything from him, he would refuse, but right now he has no energy to stand up and push him away. He sinks into his couch instead, and watches tensely as Lockhart sinks to his knees before him. He closes his eyes, and pretends it’s Albus’ hands opening his belt, and pushing his pants down. His fingertips brush through Lockhart’s hair and he jerks his hand back, squeezing his eyes shut, thinking hard of Albus’ mouth around his cock.

\--

Two weeks later, Lockhart is in St Mungo’s, and Potter nearly so. Severus himself is once again in Albus’ office. As much as he despises Potter, he knows damn well that they need him. It drives him up the wall when Albus pretends that the whole situation hadn’t put them at risk of losing a war before it began.

“If it wasn’t for sheer dumb luck, the Basilisk would have eaten him alive!”

Albus puts down his teacup. “There is always a matter of luck, or misfortune, involved in matters like these,” he says. Severus pinches the bridge of his nose. He has no patience for the sort of meaningless talk that is usually reserved for politicians. Mercifully, Albus then speaks to him in a language that does makes sense. “It was not sheer, dumb luck that had Fawkes come down to him, and bring Mr Potter the Sorting Hat and the Sword of Gryffindor.”

Severus is about to sigh, but stops himself in the last moment. Instead, he stares at Albus intensely for a few long seconds. “Are you trying to tell me that you sent him in there?”

“I did not send him-”

“You let three children wander into a hidden cave underneath Hogwarts, where the Dark Lord himself put an extremely deadly creature? Are you daft?”

Severus knows he should temper his anger, or at least keep his voice down. He knows that he should care more about what he says, especially because of who he is, and especially because of who Albus is. His self-control is fraying, once again, and a little voice in the back of his mind wonders if this is simply whom he has become.

Albus merely raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you care so much.”

Severus’ leg twitches, and his hands itch. He almost stands up and throws his teacup against the wall. He too, is surprised that he cares so much. He doesn’t know why. After all these months, he truly does not know why he still bothers.

Very slowly and carefully, he picks his teacup up, and forces himself to take a sip. His hand is steady. “I’m surprised you care so little.”

“They were in danger, but not without supervision,” Albus says smoothly. “They had Gilderoy with them, didn’t they?”

 “Yes.” Severus stares into his teachup. He has not seen Gilderoy since he was taken to St Mungo’s. “Pity what came of him.”

“Pity indeed.” The tone of Albus’ voice catches Severus off guard. He has rarely heard him speak such cold and uncaring words. Severus sits very still, and watch the teapot between them.


	9. Chapter 9

Throughout July, Severus develops a new fear. He stumbles upon it accidentally, quite literally, when a misplaced book sends him down a flight of stairs. Lying there, at the bottom of the stairs, he thinks for one horrible second that he might have broken his neck, or back, or have sustained any other lethal injury. For a few long moments, he lies there, breathing shallowly and quickly, wondering how long it would take for someone to find him. Maybe some burglar will kick in the door, and be met with the fierce stench of a decomposing body.

In that moment, he knows it for sure. He will die here, in Spinner’s End. Like his mother, who hung from the ceiling in her room, her legs encrusted with her own excrement. Like his father, who was pushed underneath a car by the hands of his own friend. There is a dark brown stain on the attic floor, where blood, shit and life had dripped out of his mother. There is a reddish stain on the curb, where skull and bottle had splintered. The only marks the Snape’s left on the earth. Severus wonders where his own stain will be.

The moment of fear passes, and he walks away with a broken leg, a very bruised back, and possibly a minor concussion. He can’t move his toes, and there’s an ugly, black bruise on his shin, but nothing’s poking out, so he supposes he can walk it off with a basic healing potion.

He sleeps away the pain, and his sleeping days carry him into August. The blissful haze of narcotics and sleep are abruptly interrupted when an unexpected flooding in the area forces him out of his bed. He walks down the stairs carefully, and slowly. There’s water seeping inside from underneath the door, and throbbing leg or not, the wooden floor will rot even faster if he doesn’t do anything about it.

By the time he arrives in Hogwarts, his leg has mostly stopped hurting. It irks him that he developed a slight limp, and that his hips grate uncomfortably whenever he tries to walk normally. Having spent the last week of August with his feet in the water, he also catches a cold. He makes himself herbal tea, and warms the fireplace. Just when he picks up the teacup, a knock on the door startles him, and he spills some of the hot tea onto his lap. He hisses, and snatches an already stained napkin from within one of the drawers. At the very least, he’ll get to see Albus again. With his limping gait and stuffed nose, he might wring some compassion out of the old man.

With a deep sigh, he hoists himself out of the chair, and opens his door. Lupin’s ugly snout greets him.

“Severus,” he says.

“No.”

The door would have slammed shut, if it weren’t for Lupin’s foot. Severus considers breaking it, or throwing the door wide open, so that it can bang satisfyingly against the wall. Instead, he merely cracks it open a little more. “What are you doing here?” he says, in a cold and low voice.

To his greatest dismay, Lupin merely shrugs awkwardly, as though he didn't expect the obvious question. He looks very much like a student sent to Severus' office much against his will, and trying not to show it. “I’ll be taking the position of teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Severus is caught off guard by the early onset of yearly catastrophic decisions. There is a little pause, in which they look each other up and down. Lupin has changed over the years, but not entirely. He is taller than Severus remembers. Werewolves are typically muscular, and their appetite tends to make them chubby. Lupin is no exception to this. He would be an intimidating, massive man, were he not slouching in his stained, mustard coloured cardigan.

“Why did you take that position?”

Again, an odd look crosses Lupin's face, as though he needs to process Severus' questions thoroughly before understanding them. So far, the whole conversation is going excruciatingly slow.

“Dumbledore asked me to.”

Severus almost laughs. Albus may appear reckless, but he isn’t. There is something else going on here, and Severus will have none of it.

“Do you enjoy knowing what you are, and knowing that they don’t know?” he asks, quietly.

The question makes Lupin stiffen. He throws a glance over his shoulder, but they are alone. His face has hardened now. Sharp lines and wrinkles blend into scars. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Severus’ voice is barely a whisper, but his eyes are intense, not wavering from Lupin’s bright brown ones. “Does it thrill you to be here? To have all these defenceless children around you? To know that they will be nothing but meat to tear through once you lose control?”

The warmth dissipates entirely from Lupin’s face. He looks cold and jaded. “No.”

Severus lowers his voice even more, knowing fully well that Lupin will hear him nonetheless. “Does it tickle your sense of justice, to do unto others what others have done unto you?”

“Severus,”

“Do you think about how easy it would be to ruin their lives? Do you get off on it?”

“For fuck’s sake!”

His fist is pressed against the stone wall next to Severus’ head. The words echo in the hallways behind them, carrying his voice far into the castle. His arms slumps again. Lupin takes a deep breath.

“Two days away,” Severus says, tapping his arm where a watch would be. The moment he makes the gesture, he feels stupid, because it's a muggle gesture, and would make no sense to Lupin. Luckily, the latter is too agitated to take notice. Severus eyes him intensely, knowing fully well how infuriating it is to have everyone's eyes on you, waiting for a mistake to happen. “Are you feeling on edge already?”

Lupin straighens himself. His voice is forcibly collected. “I am in Hogwarts because Dumbledore asked me to fill this position. I am here, talking with you, because I wanted to ask you whether you could make the Wolfsbane Potion for me.”

“No.”

“Severus-”

“If I find you,” Severus breathes. “I will kill you.”

And before another foot can work itself in between them, Severus has slammed the door shut.

\--

Severus is almost excited to go to Albus. Pacing through the corridors, he can already imagine asking him what in the name of Merlin is going on, and why they have a werewolf in a teaching position. At the thought of whatever explanation Albus will offer – one that will confirm that it is indeed a mistake, or a necessary evil – Severus nearly has a spring in his step. For once, he and Albus will side against the damnable werewolf.

“So,” he says coolly, entering Albus’ office, and closing the door behind him. “Whose idea was it to let a rabid dog loose in Hogwarts?”

Albus puts down The Daily Prophet, and gives him a tired look. Severus stiffens. “How can you live in the present when you cling onto the past so desperately, Severus?”

He crosses his arms. “I don’t have time for your words of wisdom. I want to know who will be responsible for the next Hogwarts massacre.”

“That will be me.”

Severus sighed with exasperation. “Don’t bother defending the culprit. I’ll figure it out anyway.”

“I’m not defending anyone, except for Lupin, whom I personally invited to come and teach here.”

His hand twitches. For a moment he thinks he might start shouting, or throwing stuff around, but why would the old man care for a temper tantrum? It never changed anything, and it never will. Severus nods, easily slipping into a blank face.

“So you hired the man who almost killed me when I was a student here?”

Albus raises his head at that. His mouth opens, and then closes again. Severus thinks he might be hurt, but then that might just be what he wants to see. After all, it is starting to get hard to imagine that Albus still really cares. Severus speaks again, just as coolly as before.

“I thought you were sorry.”

“I thought it didn’t matter anymore.”

The anger that he felt a moment ago has been smothered. In it's place, a hollowness has filled his chest. Severus smiles with cold compliance. “Of course.”

\--

One late night, the door to Severus’ chambers is opened. It is the first time in years that he is not silently praying for it to be Albus, so of course it has to be Albus. He sits down in the chair across from Severus, looking as though he has resigned himself to a long and tiresome task. Severus turns to him with a perfectly neutral face.

“Can I help you?”

“I take it Remus has already asked you to make the Wolfsbane Potion for him.”

Severus nods curtly.

“And I take it you refused to.”

He nods again.

There’s a pause before Albus speaks again, in which he eyes Severus sharply, as though he wonders for a moment whether he is speaking to the person he intended to speak to.

“I would like to ask you to make him the potion.”

“Of course.”

The pause is longer this time, and the doubt in Albus’ eyes returns. “You agree to make him the Wolfsbane Potion?”

The genuine concern with his obedience amuses Severus. It doesn’t go past him that Albus is sitting rather stiffly, and that he doesn’t seem to know how to proceed quite as certainly anymore. That Albus is surprised with Severus’ behaviour is perhaps the most ironic part. Isn’t Severus being exactly whom Albus wanted him to be? Composed as a spy, submissive as a servant, and devoted, as a pauper to god.

Albus reaches out his hand, and Severus frowns at it. “A vow,” he says, simply. This time it takes Severus a moment to respond. The Unbreakable Vow. He almost laughs. So much is left of their trust.

After the vow has been made, Albus raises himself from his chair. Perhaps it is the cruel light of the office, but suddenly Severus sees every line and wrinkle on Albus’ face, every lock of grey hair, and the bluish circles underneath his eyes. Albus looks old, and worn, and fragile. An odd pain twinges in Severus’ chest, a reflexive urge to grab him, and to pull him closer. Severus blinks, and averts his eyes.

“Goodnight, Severus.”

“Goodnight, Headmaster.”

Albus halts in the doorway, and glances back over his shoulder. Severus doesn’t look at him, and bends over his potion’s manual once more. He holds his breath until the door closes. The hollowness in his chest seems to expand, into his heavy, motionless arms and legs, and his very quiet mind. For a long time, he sits very still, unable to read a word.

\--

Lupin’s office is in one of the towers in the back of the castle. There’s a little corridor that connects it to the Forbidden Forest. As much as Severus knows what it’s for, he prefers going that way. With the piping hot goblet of Wolfsbane Potion in his hands, he makes his way through the snowy grounds. There is an oddly comforting quietness about the backside of the castle. It makes him feel as though maybe there is no one inside Hogwarts at all, and he is all alone.

“Severus, come in.”

“It’s Snape to you.”

Lupin shrugs. “Colleagues call each other by their first names here. I’m not making an exception for you.”

Severus glares at him as he puts the goblet down. It’s solid gold, and the mush inside has the colour and texture of congealed diarrhoea. At least he has the pleasure to know what sort of abhorrent ingredients are in there.

In a swift motion, Lupin picks up the goblet and throws back his head, swallowing the nasty draught at once. It is quickly followed by a mint. Just as Severus turns back to the door, Lupin speaks.

“Do you hate me that much over something I couldn’t control?”

Severus stands still, facing the door, with one hand already on the doorknob. “I hate you in general, but yes, nearly being murdered hasn’t left me with a good impression of you.”

Lupin’s voice doesn’t rise, but there is a dark edge to it. “You know damn well that if I had any say in it, it would never have happened.”

“Yes, of course,” Severus hisses, glaring at him over his shoulder, “Because if you had killed me, they’d have to put you down too.”

“Do you honestly think that the only reason I’m not going on a murdering spree is because they would kill me?”

Severus speaks, before he can stop himself. “Do you regret not killing me that night? Would you do it if no one would know? Are you eager to finish the job this time around?”

There is a very blunt and painful honesty in his questions, one that he had not meant to reveal. There were countless nights he spent questioning whether he hadn’t been better off dead. Whether they hated him so much that they wanted him to be torn apart by a beast. Why they hated him so much. What he’d done wrong. Even now, so many years later, he was occasionally haunted by the thought that they could tell, instinctively, what kind of person he was. That he was a lost case, corrupted, and bound to harm and kill those around him.

“I am not a murderer, and don’t flatter yourself by thinking my presence here in Hogwarts has anything to do with you.”

“Naturally,” Severus drawls. “There are plenty of people in Hogwarts, indeed. Who else do you want to hurt?”

Lupin takes a deep breath, and leans against his desk. He gathers his thoughts for a few seconds before speaking. “Why do you think the worst of me?”

“Because that’s all you are to me," Severus says, once again, before he can think it through. "The worst of yourself is just who you are. I’ve never seen any other part of you and I don’t believe it exists.” He feels ridiculous. Where is his composed self? Why does Lupin’s presence reduce him to the stupid sixteen-years-old boy he once was?

“People change over time.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “So you’re not a murderous werewolf anymore once a month?”

Lupin closes his eyes and shakes his head, as though he is indeed speaking with a stubborn sixteen-years-old. “You just refuse to see it because you hate me.”

“Does thinking that you’re somehow better than you once were help you sleep at night?” Severus sneers.

“Some people change over time, Severus. It’s not because you don’t that no one else can.”

\--

When Severus visits an empty office, steaming potion in his hand, he knows that he was right all along. He runs after Lupin, and freezes when he sees where the latter is going. Underneath the Whomping Willow. To the Shrieking Shack. His heart pounds in his chest. Out of nowhere, he remembers that he will die in Spinner’s End, and stupidly comforted by the thought, he continues his pursuit.

\--

Narrowly escaping Lupin’s fangs for the second time in his life leaves him oddly calm. His body moves on its own, and just when it starts to sink in that Black will receive the Dementor kiss, and Lupin might be put down after all, the bubble breaks. Black escaped out off his cell, and Lupin is back in his chambers. Severus takes no shame in ratting out the bastard to The Daily Prophet. That the Ministry responds by alienating all werewolves even more than they already were could not bother him any less.

The downside is that Black turns out to be nothing of the things Severus had hoped he would be. He is neither guilty nor deranged (although the latter is debatable). Lupin resigns, narrowly escaping what would be a public humiliation, hundreds of angry letters from parents, and an unflattering front page in The Daily Prophet. The ending to the whole fiasco is very anti-climatic.

Two days later, he is sitting behind his desk again. It is surreal. There are theoretical potions exams spread out before him, and yet he can scarcely get to the end of a sentence without forgetting what the beginning was. An insistent thought in the back of his head keeps telling him that something is wrong, out of place, that either whatever has happened or whatever is happening isn't real.

If he could, he would sleep, but the blissful unconsciousness of the night eludes him. There's nothing left to do but sit as he does, in his uncomfortable chair, until he can barely feel his arse anymore. Very slowly, the exams are being corrected, but at this point, the words are swimming before his eyes. It’s four in the morning.

There is a knock at his door, but by the time he realises it, the door has already opened. Albus steps into the room.

“Can we speak privately, in your chambers, for a moment?”

Severus is too tired to speak, or to trust his mouth. He stands up, feeling his joints ache and his back burn. His chambers are cold, and the lights cast grim shadows. They sit down next to one another in the couch. Severus is reeled back into the past, when Albus used to cup his face, and lean in close, either to penetrate his mind or to kiss his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Severus blinks. His eyelids are burning. He can’t make his voice sound anything but tired. “What’s the point of that?”

“I owe you an apology.”

He would be angry, if he could, but sleep-deprivation has him in an iron grip. All he can muster is a shrug. His words are dulled with exhaust. “Your apology isn’t worth a damn.”

“You were right, partially, about Remus.”

“What fucking part of ‘he is going to go berserk’ was I wrong about?”

A pause.

“You are right.”

 _And what am I supposed to do with that?_ Severus thinks.

“I’m sorry. I should have learnt from my mistakes, and not allowed this to happen again. You were once again nearly killed, and I’ve let it happen.”

“Please shut up.”

It’s worse, this way. It’s worse to hear Albus say these words. He knows all that he did to spite Albus, for no other reason than because he wanted attention. All the temper tantrums he threw, the flirting with Lockhart, the cold devotion that should have been reserved for the Dark Lord. And all it had done was prove that Severus was everything Albus had accused him of being. Childish. Selfish. Manipulative. Controlled by his own emotions.

And he also knows that he has enough reasons to tell Albus to sod off. Time and time again, Albus has pushed him aside for some pretty set of Gryffindors. But now there are these apologies, and no matter how much he grasps for any anger, there is nothing.

Albus’ hand twitches, as though he wants to move it, but then doesn’t. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. You deserve better than-”

“I told you to shut up,” he whispers, and his voice wavers. He inhales shakily, and his vision blurs. He covers his face with his hands, feeling the tiredness washing over him. A few tears roll down his cheek, and he wipes them away in jerky motions. There is a warm hand on his shoulder, and without thinking he leans into the touch, curling his arms around Albus, and burying his head into the latter’s neck. Albus embraces him, and pulls his long shawl over the both of them. He gently rocks Severus, whose shallow breathing is muffled in the warm cloth. By the time the sun rises, both have fallen asleep in each other’s arms.


	10. Chapter 10

After that night, things should have been better. For a few hours, as the sky bleeds into the evening, Severus truly believes it too. When the sun has set, however, sleep still refuses to come to him. Even then, he tries to assure himself that it just takes a while, and that he should occupy himself otherwise in the meanwhile. Hours pass, in which he organises some paperwork, mainly to keep his hands busy. Instead of drowsiness, every passing minute makes him more agitated. By the time the clock strikes three, he can’t do more than pace his rooms, and glance furtively at the door. His only hope is for Albus to come by again. He pauses in the middle of his room, staring at his clock. Time seems to stand still, cruelly watching him back and waiting for him to break.

He doesn’t want to, but he knows he has to give in. With burning eyelids and wobbly knees, he quietly slips into his bed. The sheets are soft and cold. He knows already what awaits him, and that his peace with Albus offered him no release from his insomnia. _Just a moment_ , he prays, and unconsciously his lips move along with the thought, _just a little bit of blissful oblivion_.

His heavy eyelids close, and as they do, something deep within his chest tightens. A presence looms over him, and immediately his eyes snap open again. There is no one. He rubs his eyes and turns around, curls into a ball, and pulls his pillow over his head. The presence hovers over him again. He presses his face deeper underneath his pillow. He can feel a hot breath hitting his neck, and a set of knife-like teeth looming over his head. The softness of his bed turns into hardness, and soon he is lying curled up on the muddy and rocky soil of the Hogwarts grounds. When he opens his eyes, a creature that is half Lupin and half a werewolf is leaning over him.

“Severus?”

He starts awake, heart racing in his chest. Where the monstrous creature stood now stands the tall but frail shape of Albus, barely visible in the darkness of the room. The lights are off, but a single weak flame is still lit, from the candle on his desk, and it casts a deep red glow where there is no darkness. Severus wipes the sweat of his forehead.

“Sorry for rousing you.”

Though the words make little sense to Severus, who is still half-caught up in his nightmare, the low and gentle voice which carries them soothes him. He can still feel his heart beating painfully in his chest. After the moment of daze between nightmare and reality passes, Severus grabs Albus’ hand, and draws him closer. His movements are somewhat clumsier at this hour, and his grip a little shaky, but that doesn’t stop him from cupping Albus’ cheek, perhaps with a little more force than necessary, and kissing him.

Albus pulls back, and a small sound of protest escapes from between Severus’ lips, but before his complaint can take the shape of words, he is pushed down. The bed is pleasantly cool underneath him now, and the chilly dungeon air refreshing. He watches, somewhat entranced, as Albus takes off his robes in an elegant motion, and then climbs onto the bed with him. He moves slowly but surely, as though he has a plan in mind. Though Severus is too tired to keep up with any of Albus’ enticing ideas, he finds it unexpectedly easy to trust Albus’ guiding hands. Those hands, warm and clever as they are, unbutton his nightgown swiftly, and then run over his cool skin. Those wicked fingers of his find their way to his nipples, drawing low and needy moans from Severus.

Severus’ breath hitches when Albus straddles his hips. His cock stirs at the sudden warmth and weight. Unable to help himself, he grinds impatiently against him. Little oh’s and ah’s escape him as his erection grows to its full length, rubbing hotly against Albus.

His hands find their way to Albus’ thighs, and he digs his nails into them, realising them only when Albus gently takes his hands into his own. They are pinned over his head. Reflexively, Severus wants to protest, but the image of them fills his mind – himself, pinned down and held, with Albus over him, straddling him – and he swallows his objections.

In a maddeningly slow pace, Albus moves his hips, taunting Severus, who shuts his eyes tightly and thrusts his hips up. He can hear his own voice whispering _please_ even though he didn’t mean to.

With his free hand, Albus palms Severus’ cock, and leisurely strokes it. Severus’ cock is hard as a rod by now, pulsing and leaking as though it hasn’t been given proper attention in years. Then Albus pushes the head of his cock against his ass, and the tightness of his opening nearly sends Severus into a premature climax. Desperate not to spoil the sex, Severus forces himself to keep still. Only his laboured breath and the force with which he bites his lip betray his struggle.

Very slowly, Albus lowers himself onto him. Severus rolls his eyes back and holds his breath, his toes curled and every muscle in his body taut. Only the strength of Albus’ iron grip on his hands, and the tension in his thighs, which still straddle him, keep him in place. Carefully, Albus moves his hips. The movement is slow and deliberate, and Severus lets out a desperate sigh, the tightness around his cock so hot and pulsing that even the smallest movement drives him insane. He shivers, wishing he could thrust his hips, but Albus keeps him perfectly still, and then the movements of his hips pick up its pace. Severus’ moans start out hoarse and half-muffled by the biting of his lip, but they quickly grow to be loud and shameless and absolutely wanton. He can feel Albus around his cock, the heat and tightness of him moving faster with each roll of the hips. Severus throws his head back, desperate but unable to keep himself from coming. He shudders as the orgasm overtakes him, his mind completely blank, and his body only aware of Albus’ heat on top of him.

\--

The next day, several people ask him if he is catching a cold, and with every answer, he has to suppress a smirk at the thought of what truly caused his raspy voice. Only when Albus asks him the same question over dinner, with playful innocence, he can't help but blush. No one else ispaying them any mind for the moment, and, very quickly, he pushes back his sleeve with his thumb, revealing purplish bruises around his wrist. For one lingering second, he allows himself a smirk at the flush that spreads on Albus’ face. Occasionally, throughout the next few days, he would rub his fingers over the bruises, their dull pain eliciting once more the pleasant memories of that night.

Despite the much appreciated increase in sexual activity at night, the problems of the daytime are not quite solved. During the next meeting at Grimmauld place, Severus develops an even uglier hatred towards Black and Lupin. That Black wasted away twelve years in prison for a murder he did not commit doesn’t matter to him, and that Lupin has no future in the society he fights for is no more heroic than it is pathetic. What matters to Severus is that they are re-united, and glowing in their reviving friendship.

He can’t help but watch Albus’ every interaction with them. It’s plain to see that the old man is fond of them. Now, he has not only a Chosen Potter Child to fawn over, but also half of his original favourite four.

It is a few meetings later that, while he is preoccupied with some story Kingsley is telling, the laughter of Lupin and Black catches him off guard. The sound is odd. It is a part of the past, of when they were young, and when Severus was about to be jinxed. Yet here it is, in the present, and Severus realises that their happiness is no longer intertwined with his own suffering. There is a small smile on Albus’ face as he watches them. Instinctively, it vexes him, and he knows that a part of him wishes that Albus would only smile like that because of him. Yet the vexation is not as strong as the old anger used to be, and he knows that another part of him is happy merely because Albus is.

\--

Apologising is among Severus’ poorest skills. Very few of his apologies ever had the desired result. He’s not sure what to do with himself, standing awkwardly in Albus’ office. It has been a long time since he was there, and wasn’t caught up in the cruel game they played with each other. There is tea on the table, and a lemon cake too – a peace offering that should have been made long ago. It took him years to get here though, and he knows that without words, without an actual apology, he might as well leave now.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, rather sheepishly. Albus raises his eyebrows curiously, but remains quiet. Severus clears his throat. It has been many years since he last struggled with words. “I may have been a little bit, um, childish.”

There is a smile on Albus’ face so warm and genuine that Severus has to look away. The words he had put together so carefully in his mind are fleeting, and he struggles to stick them back together. Before he can come to any of that, however, Albus has risen from his chair, and stepped around the broad desk. He then kisses him with such ardent passion that no thought is left in Severus’ mind.

\--

Severus spends that summer with Albus. He thinks, privately, that Albus feels guilty. That he knows damn well that, throughout the years, the Potter boy really did become is favourite. He doesn’t mind it so much anymore now, though. Not with Albus trying to make up for it so eagerly.

For a while, it’s almost peaceful. They are not at Albus’ house, that much is obvious, even though it’s never said out loud. They spend their days in an old cottage, at the edge of a muggle town. Severus strongly suspects Albus never made use of the place, for he seems to be as ill at easy during the first few days as Severus, even though it only shows in small things. Severus takes care of groceries, and anything related to the town. He wonders sometimes whether Albus has ever truly spend time among muggles. He wonders also, although not often, whether Albus’ relationship with Grindelwand left him with a certain impression of muggles that, although not pretty, was never given the chance to be corrected in any other way than theoretically.

As times passes, they grow more comfortable, both with the cottage as with each other’s presence. It’s oddly easy, for Severus, to be living alone with Albus. Their habits blend, and the rhythm of the old town guides them. The mornings are wet with storms, usually spent reading, discussing, and drinking tea. The evenings are hot and humid, during which all the windows are opened, and they nap and eat, only because they know that if they don’t, the other will comment on it. Severus dreams of his parents, although he does not miss them. They only have sex in the wee hours of the night, when, for a few fleeting moments, the world is dark and completely quiet.

\--

Surprisingly enough, the next year starts out reasonably well. The Tournament has everyone enwrapped. Albus is distancing himself little by little from the boy. Severus thinks that maybe, in between dealing with dragons and facing Karkaroff, things are not so bad after all. He knows the Dark Lord will return soon. He slips into Albus’ bed and lets it be. Despite the sex (which got easier with practice, then harder with circumstances), he sleeps little. He doesn’t complain – it’s good enough to be in Albus’ arms again.

He listens to Albus’ slow breath, and is lulled into a daze between wakefulness and sleep. A ray of moonlight crosses the bed, and in time creeps over his face. He thinks of what his mother once told him, that what will be will be. Or maybe it was not his mother, no, it was a song. _Que Sera Sera_. It was a long time ago since he listened to muggle music. Lily used to sing that song. Whatever will be will be. Now Lily is long dead. Severus wonders if Albus has heard of the song, and promises himself they’ll listen to it sometime soon.

\--

Severus wakes to an empty bed. The place next to him is cold and long empty. He thinks about petty little revenges and catches himself smiling. How badly he once wanted Albus to think of him with every little thing. Silly of him to think it wasn’t already so.

The sunlight catches in the thin, golden curtains that are draped around the bedposts. With a sigh, he slips his legs from underneath the heavy blankets, and rubs his eyes. Outside, the world is white in snow. Even inside, winter is tangible, like a quiet presence.

On the floor are the miserable scraps of cloth that are his robes. They are worn thin, discoloured and uneven from his own maintenance. He ignores them as he gets up, and slips into the bathroom, where he douses himself in scalding water and citric soaps.

He returns to the bedroom, his skin red and steaming, where he pokes at his shirt with his toe. There is no reason to wear it, at this point. It reeks, and there are maybe four buttons left. Albus left his robes on the floor as well. They are pale yellow and deep plum in colour. He plucks them from the ground, surprised with how heavy they are. He hesitates, and then slowly brings the soft fabric to his face, inhaling the scent. He drapes the warm robes over himself, and sits down on the end of the bed.

The bedroom door creaks lightly. Albus stands quietly in the doorway, holding two cups of tea in his hands. Lavender, by the scent of it. A fond smile warms his face, and Severus smiles back.


	11. Chapter 11

When the Dark Lord slithers out of his grave, Severus is prepared. He does not hesitate to face him, even if he fears him. He bows to the Dark Lord, presents him with devotion and lies that come smoothly and almost readily. He weaves together half-truths, and swears to his Lord that he serves him, and no other.

"I am loyal only to you, and what I have done in Hogwarts for the past few years is what you have ordered me to do. I have never left your side. I am yours." 

It sounds almost obvious. Of course he has been devoted to the Dark Lord all along. Everything he did can be explained easily. Just as before, the Dark Lord has a soft spot for him. There is something about Severus' composed devotion that pleases him. The unwillingness to bow to each and every of the Lord's whims. The subtle but cynical disapproval of ideas (or people) that others wouldn't dare to express.

The golden glow of candlelight doesn't catch on the Lord's face. It is white and scale-like, and barely reminds of the smooth and handsome face of Tom Riddle. Whatever humanity he once possessed has been sapped out of him, in favour of this undying half-life. His Lord's touch is cold as marble, his voice rasp and hissed.

"Welcome back, Severus."

Not one hour later, Severus is bent over Albus’ desk, clutching onto anything he can get a hold of. Albus' hands are hot and possessive, his nails digging into Severus' hips. With each thrust, he can feel bruises blooming on his skin, bruises which he will admire later. He closes his eyes, relinquishing the delicious greed with which he was welcomed back here, in Albus' arms. For a few breaths, he bites his lip, and listens to the voice that moans behind him, sounding so raw and human.

Albus' hand runs through his hair and pulls him back until he can feel Albus' chest against his back. The other hand curls tightly around his erection. "You're mine," Albus whispers into his ear, and Severus leans his head back and shudders, spilling into his hand.

\--

The days grit by after the Dark Lord’s return. From one day to another, Albus disappears. No goodbyes are said.

Severus is left all alone, stranded on the wrong side of the war. All he gets is a portrait. He spends long nights in front of it. It is a beautiful replica, as though Albus had one day looked into the mirror too long, and his image had burned onto the silver. This version of Albus, although it is no different from the other portraits, does not speak to him. It only watches him, very closely and calmly, as though in some other world, it is Albus who is peering at the painted face of Severus.

There are many questions he wants to ask. _Where did you go_ , or _is there any chance you are still alive,_ or _what am I supposed to do without you_? The possible answers terrify him. The Dark Lord claims he knows just what happened to Albus, and Severus repeats his words until they sound natural and obvious. Cursed, and gone to shrivel up in some dingy little hole. But now, in the wee hours of the night, and in the oil-on-canvas company of an old lover, he can't quite commit to the thought of having been left behind. He studies Albus' veiny hands, and his whitened beard, and realises for the first time that it is only natural that Albus gets to die first.

\--

When he finds himself alone with the Dark Lord in the shed, he does not fear him. He falls to the ground and thinks that, maybe, finally, he will see Albus again. He chokes on his own blood, writhing as the tingling of the poison turns to a burn. _We’ll win_ , he thinks, quietly, as everything goes black. _We’ll win, Albus. It’s as simple as that. As simple as staying alive._

The boy, Potter, finds him then. Severus is numb and quiet, but not quite deaf yet, and he forces his eyes open again. He stares into two green eyes. They don’t haunt him any longer.

“We’ll win,” he says, through blood and slime and vomit.

The boy gives him a resentful look, and then turns around. He says something that sounds a lot like _you deserve this_ , and then leaves.

It is the lesser Albus that picks him up, once more. Aberforth. Severus looks like quite the corpse, the way he is sprawled on the floor, lying very still, and bathing in his own blood. It almost fools Aberforth, who would’ve attempted the spell either way. An unconscious Rodolphus is dragged into the shed. One man for another. Aberforth has never been quite as innocent as his brother. Oh, what he wouldn’t do for the only family he has left. Albus will thank him later, in between a lecture on meddling with such dark magic.

Severus resurfaces very slowly. He feels, mostly, as though he is still in the womb. Everything is far away, and he is safe and warm. Sometimes, he forgets about the last few years, and thinks that it was the incident in Hogsmaede that had happened. Bright orange gloves and long faces underneath lantern light.

He can curl his fingers, and if he tries hard enough, he can shift his legs. His neck is stiff as a board. It’s wrapped in softness that smells of antiseptic.

“Albus?”

His voice is very thin, very frail, grating in his throat. The figure next to him moves. He hears his own name, but it sounds like it comes from within his own head.

“You know how I said,” he pauses, and swallows thickly, “How I promised I would do anything for you?”

Albus remains quiet. He knows. His thumb gently strokes Severus’ cheek.

“So I did,” Severus breaths. “I stayed alive. They could have killed me long ago. They nearly did, sometimes. Sometimes I wish they had.” His words peter out. He thinks about all the times he hurt Albus. How petty and vengeful he can be. He inhales shakily. “Did you want me to die?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

The steadiness of Albus’ voice lulls him. Severus closes his eyes and rests his face in the crook of Albus’ necks. It smells sweetly, of lemon and soap. Carefully, he reaches out for Albus’ right arm. He runs his fingers down from Albus’ shoulder, over his upper arm, which ends before it reaches the elbow. The stump is soft where it is not scarred. He imagines that, somewhere, a severed hand has been left behind, all shrivelled and blackened.

“You wanted,” he hesitates. For a moment, he fears that he has fallen back asleep already. Albus presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. He inhales shallowly, and feels his lips brushing against Albus’ neck. “You made me promise to,”

“Live for me.”

Severus sighs softly. There is a heartbeat in his chest, and a heartbeat in the chest against him. He cannot ask for more, and could not be more grateful for it.

“So I did.”

“So you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading this. If you did, please let me know in the comments, it really makes my entire day, and keeps me writing!


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